Every name was the key to something; slowly and quietly I began staking claim to the rooms of a house that belonged to me, but didn’t feel like it was mine. It was full of made-men smoking cigars, and madwomen who lived in cages and closets and shackles… just like me. I snuck passed you, sometimes, when I was bruised enough for you to go off duty, when the whiskey bottles were empty and you were drooling or sleeping with whores. I slipped passed you then, into the hallways of my inner landscape, opening doors and listening to the stories of all the parts of me you never let me be. Each one told me a tale: stories of slavery and dark magic, stories of greatness and true freedom. I sat, sometimes, until dawn with each one, staring, peering deeply into myself.... writewithspirit/letters-of-love--madness/an-open-letter-to-my-inner-critic-and-maybe-yours-too
Posted on: Mon, 04 Aug 2014 23:13:10 +0000
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