When I tell my problems, it doesn’t hurt like it did when I experienced them

I’m impressed by how the behind-the-scenes make me participate in a sorcery of moving on.

How sketchy is this truth that it’s making me rest my hands to be down bad in communication? And that if I have to rewind weather to be in the frame of my issues, I’d rather pin my dilemma than rot them in my drafts.

I have been too clothed to cover up my sensitivity because is it safe or not? But a ride of loaded unhealthy thoughts rolled up in my stomach, and I suddenly vomited with the outfits of desperate secrets—now my heart’s naked, and it was a rare calm.

Sharing doesn’t require reciprocity of either advice or understanding with words; just a few selected ones who can resonate with me without giving me a hint of regrets after I overshare tell so much that I choose the right ears to partner up with my sickness.

And now it feels addicting to type these arguments I had in my head for so long because after hitting the ‘enter’ button, I now chuckle about what made me cry a while ago.