Drabble Letter #8: Self-Doubt

Dear Self-Doubt,

Every word under the sun, bundled together in a bilious, blistering bonfire, wouldn’t even come close.

Given my love of words, I could doubtless find delight in denigrating you – but what would be the point? The delight would be perverse; the time, wasteful.

For insecure, I may be; but foolish, I am not: I know that like the rancid undercurrent of yesteryear which today feels so emboldened, you will be forever waiting for an opportunity to strike.

You may never be a shrinking violet but you will always be unwelcome.

And Iโ€™ll always come back swinging.


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