I first started writing because I wanted someone to notice me. Because I wanted to make people feel shivers down their spine when they found one of my poems engraved into a metallic bathroom stall or a wooden bench.

I then wrote because I wanted to feel something myself, in the form of someone else’s “fake” story. Because when things aren’t your problem, it tends to become less worrisome and more forgettable.

I then started to write because I wanted to show the world, who you were. Because to me, when I wrote you, peoples eyes turned and their ears widened. You were like the phenomena I never knew people wanted to hear.

That’s when my writing had died. When I had handed you out to the world, for attention and embrace, when you were not theirs to be seen. I wrote for you, and nothing else.

You then had the audacity to tell me, my writing was too “complex” and it wasn’t something you were “interested in”.

That was when I had died.

Because my poetry was dead, the muse didn’t care.