The Sacrifice of Writing

Writing while happy is hard.
It's easier to write about a storm brewing in my head, 
or knots twisting my intestines like a toddler trying to tie them like shoelaces.
It's not so easy to vocalize the vibrant colors of emotion I feel every time you tell me I'm beautiful.
It's easier to find that small darkness of doubt that tells me you're lying.
It's frustrating when I want to feel the fire you light inside me when all I'm used to is sorting through the ashes.
Writing is how I've expressed and escaped the mess I call myself.
It's what I've turned to when days go black and I can't stand what I see in the mirror.
Only now you untangle the shoelaces and replace them with butterflies in my stomach.
You help piece together the work-in-progress I call myself.
And when the mirror tells me I'm worthless, you're there to tell me it's lying.
While writing has been a good distraction from the burden I call life,
it's also a good sacrifice for the blessing I call living.