Illustration by Sébastien Thibault What do I write about? How do I write when I have forgotten to write? Do I write about pain, longing, love? Do I invite melodrama into works that I once tore, remnants of which were spread across my deathbed? It wasn’t my deathbed, after all. Do I write of nights, where I lie sleeplessly dreaming of my bed burning, voluntarily engulfing myself in the fire? Tell me, now, do I write about you, or her, or him, of love that wasn’t love or love that taught me more about hate than affection? Do I write with my blood; now does it disgust you?
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Illustration by Sébastien Thibault What do I write about? How do I write when I have forgotten to write? Do I write about pain, longing, love? Do I invite melodrama into works that I once tore, remnants of which were spread across my deathbed? It wasn’t my deathbed, after all. Do I write of nights, where I lie sleeplessly dreaming of my bed burning, voluntarily engulfing myself in the fire? Tell me, now, do I write about you, or her, or him, of love that wasn’t love or love that taught me more about hate than affection? Do I write with my blood; now does it disgust you?