One week.

A week of contemplation.

A week of no inscription, description.

Desolate.

Unwritten.

My pen started writing and my hand crumpled the paper and threw it away.

Wrong.

The words on the paper didn’t match the words in my heart and the paper didn’t look nice sitting on my desk.

It was an empty cup of coffee that I’d forgotten to throw out.

That sandwich I forgot at the office on Friday afternoon to find moldy Monday morning.

It was trash.

I was asked why the sudden change.

Why my once happy and positive writing turned into sad, emotional, and perhaps bipolar in a way.

Things would remind me of other things and things would remind me of people and I’d break.

And I’d write.

To forget.

To let out.

To say it

Even when I knew that I shouldn’t.

You guys are my therapists.

I tell you guys everything I…