I do not know myself. I act without thinking, like a chicken running with its head cut off. I brandish my sword, stab others, and feel remorse. I do not learn from my mistakes. I must course correct this battleship through the road of ruin and seek to know myself.

I do not know my story. I have wanted to write since I first slept in the hospital bed. Nothing seems as real as madness feels. Yet madness is mist. I must review my life and grasp the snake that bites my palm.

I do not have a choice. Midnight ghosts clamor to be heard. My inner critic is dressed in a power suit and red stilettos. She has a law degree and scorns people sleeping on the street. I must accept her and write.

I write to know myself. I write to tell my story. And to make the choice. I commit to an audience. There is no exit.

I will fumble. I will blame myself and be arrogant. I will craft bad sentences. But there is beauty in the madness. And some good sentences.

Photography by Jasmine Powell