I don’t make anything when I’m okay.
That version of me is quiet.
Useless.
Nothing to say.
Nothing to fix.
So I wait for something to go wrong again.
And it always does.
And there’s a moment—
before it becomes overwhelming—
where it’s almost perfect.
Sharp. Clear. Alive.
That’s when I take it.
Turn it into something.
Call it art.
Call it honesty.
Call it healing
so no one asks why I keep returning to it.
Because if this stops,
I don’t know what replaces it.
And I’m not sure
I want to find out.
