Why I Write

I am a writer because words are beautiful.
They twist and deceive and layer and become
so much more than they seem.

I am a writer because words are easy –
easy like simple, easy like slutty.
They open themselves to me like whores,
letting me screw their meaning completely
and destroy everything they are and should be.

I am a writer because it is socially acceptable
to bleed this way, inkwell heart pushing
thin paint through fingertips aching
for relief from excessive expression.

I am a writer because I can put ME into fiction
and no one will ever know how little pain I invent;
how I cry over characters I don’t even like.

I am a writer because I can revise ink,
even if I can’t erase it.

I am a writer because the page is my home
even when the house I grew up in is across state lines,
when thin blue lines on looseleaf conjure smiles
quicker than a phone call.

I am a writer because this kind of ink hurts less
than the tattoo I would get
if I weren’t a wimp about pain.

I am a writer because I like hard work;
because you are an IDIOT if you say
“the humanities are a soft option”
but complain about that 5-page paper in your
Freshman English class.

I am a writer because I can whip out
ten pages in two hours when
motivation and inspiration intersect.

I am a writer because words are everything.

I am a writer because words set me free.

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