Falling, plunging down. You’re smiling, your high has been replenished. You love the feel, the adrenaline… the way you switch between life and death like a black cat with nine lives. You love the sting, the sight from up so high; because falling feels like flying. Until the moment you land.

Once you’ve kissed the ground, no longer flying, scraped and broken, you rise. The scars are still there, a word for all who don’t know your story. A word that calls out to others, “weak”.

And so here I write- stories of my own, hoping someone will listen to a broken radio with a repeated message.