Why do I write these words?
Why should I put myself through
The pain of raw exposure
When I could wrap myself in my warmest blanket,
My skin?
Why do I continue to scribble
When I could go on living inside myself
Instead of letting years of saturated tears saturate this paper?

I write –
No,
I bleed these words
Because Ernest Hemingway told me to
I bleed these words because I fancy myself
a revolutionary
I fancy myself a fighter and a freedom seeker
I fancy myself a brave battalion of one
A solitary militia

And sometimes to be free
You have to rip off your skin
And let the raw exposure of bearing your soul
Make your insides sizzle
And hot salty tears vacate your irises

Because freedom will never be free
And the price is pain and patience
Balanced with a tough exterior and something bordering on aggression
Even a tidal wave of light pushing relentlessly against darkness
Has to cry sometimes

And I,
I took the tears
And the sizzle
And the raw lack of skin
With an open heart
And I let it slowly mend my fissured mind

For that,
I get to fancy myself a revolutionary