Matt

I write because I can’t speak. I can talk, yes, but my words jumble, and stumble, and fall all over each other into an incoherent mess that clogs my mouth with embarrassment and stops the rest before they pass my lips.

 I write because when I talk my words are forever lost to the moment, while writing remains firmly printed to the page.

 I write because when I write I have proof of my thoughts, proof that there’s something more than an introverted music fan behind my eyes.

 I write not just for me but for the kid sitting on his apartment bed, wondering if the only way out is through his 5^th floor window.

I write for the girl who tells herself he does it because he loves her as she cakes make up on the bruises.

I write for everyone who tells themselves there’s no way out, and for everyone who pretends they don’t need one.

I write for my best friend, because just like me, she understands the language of print, and music, and song better than anything.

I write to remember.