i miss the naivety of writing. where i just pour my heart out, not caring who will read it or how they'll be perceived. not caring if the words made sense. or if they gave justice to my feelings that should be heard and felt.
i miss the curiosity when writing. experimenting with how each letter sounds beside another, just going with the flow of how pretty they look together. and being aware of the world just in case my favorite word is hidden in crevices of alleyways.
but i don't miss the tears that come along with every piece written. how the ink used to write every line came from wounds that shouldn't even exist. how the number of pieces written tallies with the scars formed. a constant reminder of the people who held the knife.
i don't miss the feeling of not feeling anything at all when i finally pieced together the last letter of the word. how i knew that my heart needed to bleed out the last drop into something just so they could stand and applaud.
—i miss who i used to be, but i know i will never go back no matter what. like how a wilted rose can never bring back her petals because the only thing she can do is grow new ones.