I’m bad at feelings. I’m good at telling you my favorite color, foods, books, and things of the like. But I’ll stumble my way through an explanation of the night I spent on a roof in Mexico after finding out my best friend’s older sister had passed away. I cannot describe the cold, frigid air, the overcast sky, the muted sounds of life happening a couple of blocks away, the feel of the rusted metal staircase I stood on and clung onto as I sobbed, condemning God for betraying our trust in keeping her alive, or how I held onto the railing as the rain began to pour over me and pound into me, melding my hands to the metal until I had to rip them away and wail at the burns on my skin. I can’t do that at all. Unless I have a pen in my hand or a keyboard under my fingers, I can’t do that at all.
Dianne E.C.E.
