It’s not so much that I found words, as they found me. I learned as a child not to draw attention to myself. Everything was safer that way, but it also meant that I became a silent observer of my life, sometimes of life in general. And though I rarely spilled my words, I could taste them like sparks dancing on my tongue. I’d lose myself in books, reveling in the words of others while too afraid to speak my own. The thing about words is that you can’t undo them, and that’s utterly terrifying. But there’s freedom in the release—in the fact that you can breathe life into your thoughts with ink. And whether others love your words or hate them, they are your own to lay bare. It is a cleansing of sorts. It heals.