Night writing is different than day writing, isn’t it.
At night all the pretty conventional thoughts run away and tuck themselves in with their blankies. At night the creepy crawly bastion of the unacceptable wander to the surface, dragging cold dank thoughts behind like whimpering little hostages.
I want to write about them. I want to share the smell of a coal furnace at 3AM and the sounds of cold laughter no one else can hear. I want you to taste the salt of tears cried behind the wheel of a car because life is unfair and dreams for me mean only more disappointment. I want to throw out old pain like shrapnel. We could sit here and bleed together.
My stories are deep. Some buried so far I can’t find words for them. Some so fantastic you wouldn’t believe. Some so fantastic I don’t want to believe. I have thoughts so dark… You wouldn’t believe a nice girl like me could hide such things behind big brown eyes and an ever present smile.
I am not false.
Boxes within rooms within vaults tidily labeled “Closed” until I almost forget they even exist.