I write to make words legitimate. I write because most words are written in black ink. I write to give life to the inanimate. I write to find a voice. I write to find peace. I write to breathe. I write to touch stars. I write to talk to God. I write to fathom magic. I write to fight back. I write to empathize. I write to fly. I write to touch the intangible. I write to see in the dark. I write to alleviate the storm. I write to melt time. I write to give my mother back her childhood:

 I write to rewrite the nights where you cried and screamed and begged for him to stop. I write to rewrite the nights you took it so that your brother didn’t have to, because you knew he wasn’t strong enough.  I write to rewrite every moment your mother didn’t listen. I write to rewrite your past so that you don’t have to stare it dead in its eyes everyday wishing you could choke the life out of it for not paying enough attention. I write because you know that is still your mother. 

I write to give my brother a presence. I write about how we both were expected to pass because we were born unable to breathe. I write about how he gave the world light for a few hours and decided he was never going to be able to use it as well as he knew I could. I write to wonder what would’ve happened if he made it. I write to wonder what would’ve happened if I didn't. 

I write to be grateful. 

I write to give myself a father. I write to take back my nights that stole years from my happiness because he just couldn’t be around to teach me what a man’s love was supposed to feel like. 

I write to rewrite every person who took a piece of my thread and ran with it hopping the spool would unravel slow enough for them to be satisfied, but fast enough so I knew they didn't care to rethread me.  I write because the razors just never cut deep enough. I write because the pills just never took me quick enough. I write because the fire did not burn long enough. 

I write to understand why. 

I write because I was screaming in pitches so high I shattered my ceiling that held my ability to process emotion and yet you still didn’t hear me. I write because I thought they heard me.

I write to rewrite the times I thought it was love. I write because this misconception allowed me to know the taste of lidocaine and almost. I write to wonder what it would’ve been.

I write to reinvent love.

 I write to give the version of myself across the room, that watched myself spiral, a voice. 

 I write to die. 

I write to be revived. 

I write because everything happens for a reason.

I write to recreate myself:

I write to find solace, deep rooted in the calligraphy that runs through my veins. I write to dance to beat of my heart. I write to know that it beats only for me. I write to soak the idea of self love deep into my encephalon. I write to understand why I wasn’t ready until now. I write because I can finally look at myself in the mirror without wishing it would shatter. I write because I still keeping finding pieces of myself left embedded in flowers and sun beams, waterfalls and snow showers. I write because when the sun sets, I am no longer afraid I won’t see it rise again. I write because I found my voice. I write because it echoes through valleys and makes mountains shiver. I write because I know why my brother gave me the chance. I write because I know why God allowed it.  I write because I am enough. I write because I have always been more than enough.