This is the truth. The whole truth.

It's easy, I think, when putting pen to paper, to cut and stretch. To make myself appear kinder or cleverer. To add little bits of embellishment here and there, or perhaps to wind the little pains into a tight ball, small enough to be curled in my fist. But I can't. The words flow quickly and the truth is intoxicating. Slit me open and a spurt of black will pour out, thick and viscous. Ink and words bruising my skin, throbbing in the pads of my fingertips.

Blood means nothing. It is forgotten.

Words, words, words thrumming through me: these matter. Ink thicker than blood thicker than water.

And so it is. The truth is life, and now I must face it.

I am the reason she's dead.

She lies buried beneath six feet of earth and a slick of frost, and I am the reason for it.

I can confess here. After all, I am simply scratches on a page. Sure, your mind can comprehend them. You can translate these marks however you want and judge me as you will. But you cannot find me. You cannot confront me to fling my words back at me and decry my cowardice.

Only I can do that.

Only I can set myself free.