I have a filthy love affair with words.

I know them intimately. I know their curves and flow. I know the deepness they can go, the height in which they soar. I know their soft touch; I know their reassurance. Their finality and their indefiniteness.

We fail each other all the time. We fight and argue and differ. They have wounded me, broken me, scarred me. They keep me from sleep. They keep me from eating. They slow my heart and burn my chest until I want nothing more than to stop being, so they stop bleeding.

I have a deep, angry love affair with words.

They are the truest home I know. It makes me sad when they are used against their will, twisted and perverted into something they are not. I’m saddened when they are misused, misunderstood, and used to justify the unjustifiable simply because others think they know. But they don’t. They don’t know.

I am very protective of words, and I will use them they way they should be used. Sharply. Softly. Truthfully. Honestly.

I am their keeper. Their lover. Their friend. Their enemy.

I have a filthy love affair with words.