I am a writer.
Sometimes I write words with a pen.
Ink spilling over a page in a mess of black and white, lapping up all senses of understanding in pools of inky darkness.
Sometimes I write words with paint.
Colors and colors coming together to make beautiful pictures, some as ugly as me.
Sometimes I write words with kisses.
Kisses on your cheek show my appreciation and kisses on your neck show my pleasure and kisses on your scarred hands show my loyalty.
Sometimes I write words with tears.
Tears that trace lines down my cheeks, glistening in pain and hurt. My tears have no voice, they are silent.
Sometimes I write words with screams.
I scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream. Sometimes that is all I can do.
I write words with my voice.
Singing to you or to myself or to the heavens or to no one at all. My voice echoes off the walls that I put up around myself.
I write words with my fingertips.
Gliding them across your arms, your chest, your lips. Trying to draw you closer to me and getting nowhere because I haven’t been touching you at all.
I write words with my mind.
They don’t get read, and they don’t get seen.
But I write them.
I write words. I write words. I write words.
I am a writer.