When I see you again...

There used to be people I confided in, but confiding in others is a thing I don't have the armor for any more. And the words I send come back empty.

I miss feeling safe. Like, I could write and speak words and send them afloat and gentle hands would unfold those sheets of paper and read them. Set my words back in a bottle and send them off to someone else.

I miss being able to write. I miss being able to sing and make up songs. Everything feels dangerous, and sharp- on edge.

No one really feels safe, and no one certainly feels like home. Things I used to love, I haven't been doing-because doing means sharing, and sharing isn't something I'm as open to.

But, here I am writing again, because not writing feels awful.

But, I'm paranoid. Like I'm being watched, like I'm being judged or assessed, critiqued.

But, I'm doing it anyway, because I miss my home.

There are so many things I want to whisper to the invisible person who lies next to me at night. That person I want to exist who doesn't actually exist. The things I've heard and seen, the things I've lived, the things that scare me or make me nervous. The things that make me laugh, and make things seem brighter and better.

I want to confide in you, but you scare me.

Is it okay for us to grieve openly? Without pseudo names? I have too many blogs, places I've gone to hide away from anyone who knows me so I can just speak up, and speak out, and confess things I can't confess in the light.