Why I write

Have you noticed that only those who do not write

ask those who do

"Why?"

The question fills my head with answers.

Not all of them are honest (thank you insecurities)

because the reason seems weak.

Foolish

Silly.

Some write to inspire.

Some write to spill their hearts.

Some write to empty their minds.

I write to escape.

I am a child full of fear,

of dissappointment,

of sorrow,

of failure,

of things that the world shoves into my eyes,

things that burn and scream and tear me...

tear my soul to pieces.

The world looks at me and sees a shell.

A shell covered with brown skin,

a shell of a woman's body,

a child that has nothing to offer.

A falsity!

I write.

My fingers were made for holding pens and pencils

for pressing the buttons of a keyboard,

building worlds and giving birth to people who are 

so much like us and yet so different.

Better than us. Kinder than us. Smarter than us. 

More accepting than us.

Why do I write?

I write because I can, with my own hands,

with my own mind,

create a place where I feel safe.

Where I feel loved.

Where I feel accepted.

I write because I can do for myself

what the world can not,

could never,

do for me.