Demons

So I've been up for a little while, remembering and writing, and damn if it isn't painful. How terrible is it to make yourself weep before 6 a.m.?

You see, I thought this book of mine was about cancer. It isn't. It's about becoming. And becoming mostly happens out of a shitstorm, or more likely, several. My becoming--thus far--evolved out of pain, loss, fear. Losing control, losing my dad, losing my home, all at around age 8 . . . it ain't pretty. But I guess the things I lost never belonged to me anyway. But there's grief in that, too.

Maybe it will hurt less after diving into it head first. It's the only thing to do with monsters: crawl right into their slimy, dripping mouths.