I want to write again, but I’m afraid I no longer know how. Words and phrases fill my head, but instead of the ease that they would spill onto the page, into stories and wondrous phrases, they come out FLAT and jumbled together. So I decided to bury them inside of me, instead of facing their hideous appearance. But instead of disappearing, the words started to die within me. I thought they would feed my insides with their substance, but they caused everything else to grow damp and overwhelmed at the decomposing matter. No matter my effort to rid myself of the compost, more would appear, pieces of me that would usually spread on a page, dying within me.