When I write, I no longer want to fear myself.
I wish to bleed myself dry to these pages without wondering if anything I do is of any worth.
When I write, I no longer want to doubt myself.
I wish to gnash my teeth together as my truth flows out in an array of colors and emotions.
When I write, I no longer want to erase my emotions.
I wish for tears to fall down my cheeks as I bare my imperfect soul to a computer and its keyboard.
When I write, I no longer want to grieve about unsaid words.
I wish for the past to become palpable and remind me of how I got here and those that I left behind in the process.
When I write, I no longer want to compare myself to every other individual in existence.
As I sit here, I realize that writing is a vital part of myself.  
In hating writing, I begin to hate the child that dreamt of writing a book.
That child, I hold her tight in hopes of realizing her everlasting happiness again.
I wish to come home to her again one day.