My writing won't tell you how I feel.
It will tell you how I might feel, how I could feel, how I definitely do not feel, the intrusive thoughts that just had to get out, the things I'd never say, maybe what I think you might expect,
but this is not unfettered honesty.
This is bottled rage, reminiscent longing for bridges burned, a manifestation of bits and pieces of half-baked philosophies on life.
Someone once used a poem I wrote to label my love language vindictive, but they forgot to think about the narrator and determine what is real
and what is just a good line for a poem.