People always say that words can heal you. Words can set you free.

I cannot tell you how many times I have been told, "Just write. You will heal quicker if you get it out onto paper."

Sometimes I believe the people in my life when it comes to this, but there are days when I can't help but go back and pull apart my writing. It's easy to hide behind metaphors because you don't want anyone to know the truth, but in the words of Rudy Francisco, "You can't bring a metaphor to a gun fight."

This is a hard reality to swallow, but maybe healing can be found in the truth between the lines.

"Seems like every time I talk to you, you sink lower. All I can do is apologize for existing." It's easy to say that I was drowning. It's easy to say that I felt like my body took up too much space because one person made me believe that it did. It's easy to say that it was my fault. But really, it was begging for love. The truth is that it was never about wanting to tell anyone how lonely I felt; never about wanting to tell anyone I truly believed that love meant being ignored and still chasing after them.

"There are so many things pertaining to myself that I do not understand. My mind works like clockwork, but the seconds tick by too fast and I am left at the castle in rags when the bell tolls at midnight." Putting on a mask is easier said than done. Trying to please people is my specialty, so it's easy to say that I feel like Cinderella, with her perfect fairytale shattering around her when night falls. Really, it's laying in bed and overthinking everything. Really, it's wondering why you weren't good enough. Really, it's wondering why you are so good at being what everyone else wants you to be, but not knowing who you really are at heart.

"How lucky am I to still be able to take my heart and hand it to this person, even with the blood dripping past his fingertips." Love has become a scary reality for me throughout high school, and even now I still find myself shaking every time my heart flutters for someone else. I could say that the butterflies made my heart their home, and with every flutter of their wings I open up a little bit more. In reality, it's getting sweaty palms and shying away when he talks to me. Really, it's more of me trying to convince my shy, loving heart that it's okay. Really, it's wanting to believe that everything will be alright.

I understand that writing can help me heal, which it has. However, I push every writer out there to go back and read their own work. Learn to pick it apart to make sure you are not blinding yourself from your own reality. Learn from your life. Learn from your mistakes. Use the words as a blanket to wrap yourself in on the bad days, but use every syllable as a war cry because you can make it. Believe in yourself.