As a writer, you grow appreciating the ink of a pen, the charcoal of a pencil, the textures of a paper or whatever the hell you write on. They’re your buddies. Your helpers to get your words out in any way you can. Notebooks and books get piled up and hundreds of sticky notes all over your car, room, bag, and even floor. I am thankful for the trees that died in order for me, a selfish pained human being, to express what my useless mouth couldn’t do.

My fingers are filled with paper cuts, which I don’t mind. I deserve it, dear tree. I do promise to treasure your loss. Maybe it’s a sign for me to stop writing but no; I’ll bandage it up and on to the next book to cherish and the next paper to fill my words that never wither.

I grew fond of fingers and fingerprints. Appreciative of art for they fill me with inspiration, redefine my trauma. Poetry or people hand me more metaphors to contemplate on.

I am thankful for the birds, a species I admire.

I am thankful my mouth is sewn shut for I have found ways to express without the convention of screams, whispers or language.

I am thankful

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