This, Is Why I Write

I write because my tongue is too tired to speak.  I write because somethings are easier to say if their shaped in ink. I write because I want to say the things that are hard to say. I write because sometimes you don't listen. I write because I'm not wasting my breath on your ears. I write because of that feeling of giddy blissful happiness or cold suppressed numbness goes away, and I continue to write because it always comes back. I write because I hate to repeat myself. I write because I hate repeating myself.

I too, write because it is dangerous. Because the words I'm writing are treacherous and unkind and too true and raw. Oh, my words can be so raw. I write because I don't need a hug- just a word. I write because I want to hug- but only have words. I write because I am not worthy enough to speak about the stardust that coats the moon, and the shards of light that dance like glass. I write because that is how I remember. I write because I don't want you to forget. I write because there are characters I want you to meet and I write because the adventures in my head and stories in my heart finally have a safe place to go; between the pages of a leather bound book, my thoughts secured in the pixels of a white screen.

And I write to spite you. Because what I say, and have said, and will someday say again leaves you wondering. Panting. Laughing. Wanting. Waiting. And oh wouldn't you like to know what was written.

I write because the pages never tell my secretes. I write because from spewing words I find the truth. I write because the things I don't know scare me. And I continue writing because perhaps, when I'm finished I won't be so scared. I write to make sense of what I'm writing. I write because I have too many emotions I don't know what to do with. Too many feelings I don't know how to tell you. And I shout and scream and cry each vowel and syllable and exclamation point.

I write because it feels- good. Like a golden sunrise after a horrible night and the beat drop to an explosive song. It feels so good to see your heart in ink, read it back to yourself, to everyone. To hold the pulsing heart of muscles and emotions in your left hand and let the blood drip down your arm as you shove it in peoples faces saying: this is how I feel, this is why I'm scared, this is what I love, this is what I want you to know.

I write because to speak would leave you speechless, but not before my voice would give out, because I have too many  things I want to say.