Part eight

Journal prompt bank

For whenever a new wound needs the same process this book already walked you through.

What am I still calling "fine" that isn't fine?
If I'm honest, is this regret, shame, or grief, and how do I know?
What's the smallest true sentence I've been avoiding saying about this?
Who would I need to write an unsent letter to right now, if I let myself?
What has this cost me that I've never actually counted?
What's one piece of evidence, from my own hands, that contradicts the story I'm telling myself today?
If I told this as a redemption sequence instead of a contamination one, what would the last line actually be?
What boundary have I been avoiding because I'm scared of how someone will react?
What am I still doing on autopilot that used to protect me but doesn't anymore?
What would the version of me from Chapter 11 do with the next hour?
Am I in the orbit or in the armor — and what would unhooked-and-open look like this week?
If they never speak again, what would completion require from me, not from them?
Where do I currently fuse — in texting, in future-talk, in pausing my own life?
What would it mean to stay willing to love without making anyone a life-support machine?

Write it here

Pick one prompt. Write until the sentence gets honest.