Oh, I want only to write beautiful things.

I want people fifty years from now to read a sentiment I once jotted down - smudged and faded, left handedly uneven –and I want their eyes to dampen with tears and I want whatever makeup they wear in the future to stream down their faces in the shape of my letters.

I want flowers to bloom from my fingertips.
And I want birds and ladybugs to buzz on my pencil tips and in the creases of my notebooks, and I want my sentences to plant trees in ribcages and to suspend breathing due to a sudden growth of awe in the lungs.

I want to catch breath and widen eyes and I want people to say
“That was lovely”
Or
“I’m touched”
And I want a teenage girl to scour the aisles of a Half Price Books on her sandaled tiptoes searching for my words.

Teach me how to transfer my heart onto paper; teach me to write sentences that beg to be put into books.

I want to tie ribbons around all of my thoughts and give them as gifts to the future and to my friends and to people who maybe don’t know me but maybe wish they did.
I want people to wish that they knew me.

I want people to know me not by my face but by my words.
Because the sentences that come from a mouth are so much more important than whether that mouth has pink full lips or whether eyes are framed by long curling lashes: it just doesn’t matter as long as I can see clearly and write of what I see.

Teach me to write what I see what I feel what I love what I am.

Oh, I want only to write beautiful things.

Tie me up in silver and let me give myself as the gift of a girl with too many words and not enough ways to be beautiful.

Let me write beautifully.