I don’t write. When I do, it’s not for me. It’s for school, or because mama tells me I should. But when I do write, it’s only because I have no-one else to tell. I write because writing is my confessional. I write to expose my barest soul to the friend that will tell no one.

I write to change the world. I can make people different, twisting their words, contorting their actions, softening their sharp tongues. I write to make life better, to sink into a warm quiet hole of paper and pencil, where, for an instant, the world is better. Where the world is mine.

I write to try to make sense. I plan my universe with sharp, scratching pencil marks. I write, and my words scratch into the sky, instructions for everyone to follow.

I write to write. I don’t write because I need to. I write purely for the sake of writing something down. I write because when I start, I can’t stop. I write and write and write until