A letter from my writing to me

You speak of your great love for me. Yet, these forlorn phrases echo off the empty pages. You tell people your big dream, "the dream is..." but you hide your greatest creations in a folder in another folder in another folder. You lodge each piece in the tightest crevice and you stuff each of the four ventricles with loose sheets. You are afraid to open that book, bound in oil-stained brown, because it contains sketchy work. Raw, much like yourself. You think that peeling open the page of the book would be equivalent to having your heart wrenched out and displayed like a centrepiece for anyone to devour. But this fear you have is only natural. To let others see your work is like revealing a part of your soul. And that is something to be fearful about. But letting this fear stop you from doing what you love is stupid. So stop it. Your love for me should be enough.