If you unravel those ugly layers of lies and broken promises, there in the middle, you will find a little sigh.
This is the story of the little sighs that became words.
I am not a writer.
That begs the question, if I am not a writer, then what am I?
I am a woman, a strong woman, who hates the euphemistic description of strong woman often used by feminists that says, "I am a woman, hear me roar"
I have no voice to roar, for I am filled with sighs.
When the night is all quiet, often you can hear the dogs howling in the distance and if you listen close enough, you can hear a sigh, a soft sigh, a sigh that struggles to find its way out of the deep dark place that inhabits my mind, a sigh that competes with my tears, a sigh that is the beginning of the end.
If those sighs could tell their story,then there is a story to be told and that is the story here.
I am not a writer. I am a strong woman who is overwhelmed by all those soft sighs, those tiny little sussurations that wants their story to be told.