Words have been my therapy ever since I can remember. Specifically, ever since my first journal that I bought from a Book Fair in 1st grade; I had my eye on it for days until I finally went home and asked my mother for the exact amount that it would cost me. It was a floral hardback with a fabric bookmark made of golden silk, and thick pages that smelled somewhat like the office I had imagined for myself as a writer in a big city. Writing is a release; a trance in which I can either face or escape my demons. The words are my very own bruised bones.

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