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"we are writers my love, we don't cry. We bleed on paper."

Who am I? Perhaps my mother’s regret for she treats me with silence or my father’s anger for I have his temper. I flirt with hatred. Spite and rage run through my veins.
Who am I? A garbage can for toxic lovers to dump their baggage or an ashtray for my loved ones for I tend to hold on to their ashes of lies and fires of deceit.
Who am I? Behind this façade of naïveté and niceness. Really who am I? Behind the feeling of always feeling trapped (might I dare as to exaggerate that I have been in Gregor's shoes? Not quite literally but the feeling of being stuck, alienated and lost lingers.) Who am I? An organism that evolved? A parasite? Some might say I am wired weird, an odd being (my darlings bare with me it’s that Kafka kind of bizarre I resonate with.)
Who am I? When I am not looking for a purpose, when I am not doubting my existence, when I am alone and at peace, when I dig deeper with in myself. A walking  contradiction? A sinner, a Martyr? A lover, a killer? A human?
Who am I ? If not a writer. A writer who finds solace in solitude and remedies her madness with art.
I am a writer, who is the voice of the outcast, the wired weird and the hopeless. I am a writer who prides herself in falling in love with words, a writer who possesses a beautiful outlet for her sorrows.
No longer do I hate the calamity I ignore, the happiness I hope for, the suffering I hold on and the peace I long for, they are muses I cherish and adore. And so I write  with hope and not against it, no more.
I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. 

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