Tears stuck in your throat hurt worse than tears dripping down your cheek. My mother told me, but I never listened.

I learned early to cram those tears deep into my soul, like packing gunpowder into an antebellum rifle.

People tell me shame is the best ammunition: a cluttered conscience, failure, an unfinished task. Mold each one into the perfect bullet and pack it in deep with all the fear you can muster. The fear that you might really be who you think you are. Continue reading →