You've probably seen me mention it before, but I was an angry little teenager. I thought it was me against the world and so I spent a lot of time retreated into me. It felt safe there, for some reason. I don't think it is anymore. Or, to twist it, I don't think safety is a goal. I don't think comfort is necessarily a good thing.
If you go back through the years of my blog, and it's hard to believe there are as many posts sitting around here as there are, I think you'll find some pretty specific times where I post that I'm not sure what to post. I'd also bet that those times are, without fail, times where I knew exactly what I wanted to talk about or write about, but I thought choosing not to was the proper thing to do. Or right, or kind, or whatever word you feel like calling it.
That choice, keeping things I want to say inside, is beginning to feel less and less safe. There's certainly no lasting comfort to be had there.
That kind of poison burns. It sits in your stomach and just boils. And then it's not too long until you can taste it in your throat and feel it in your fingers and you start to see spots in your vision.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, is worth allowing something to eat you alive. No sense of etiquette, no one's feelings, nothing.
I won't let myself be silenced anymore. You can take and take from me, but you won't take my words. Not anymore.
They're all I have that's really mine.
And if you find yourself with a problem with that, well, I guess the right thing is to say it.