I’m not a writer. I want to pour out beautiful words on paper. Lines filled with deep painful tears. Have this tree corpse soak up all the emotional shit I’m unfortunately feeling. That’s how it works right? Poets crack open their souls onto the little brown journals and all the pain stays safely in the binding? I want that. I want to write it all out and no longer feel it. Every spoiled privileged gut ache and chest crushing pressure leaving my body, out through fingertips becoming the ink in the pen. I want that. I want to feel empty as the words create beautiful stories for no one to read. But I am no writer. I am no emptied cup. The words don’t come, and the hurt still stays.