It’s an internal feeling just like any other.
Both hard and soft at the same time
and always unforgiving.

You write like you mean something to someone.
Like someone is going to read your words and agree
or understand
or try to get it
but it slips past them every time.

You write like you have something to say.
Like someone cares and wants to hear.
To understand.
To agree.
To disagree.
To spill respect either way.

You write like he’ll read,
like he’ll care
and he’ll hear you once and for all.
He’ll really hear you
and won’t tell you you’re wrong
even though you’re always wrong.

You’ll write like he loves  you.
Unconditionally.
Not conditionally.
Only when you’re perfect,
perfectly quiet
not writing at all.

You write like you’re right.
Like you know.
You know what’s best.
What’s best for you
and he can’t tell you what to do.
Though he can
and he will

You write like you’ve overcome it
once and for all.
Or just once.
One time would be enough.
For now.
To start.

You write like he’ll listen.
Listen to a word you’ll say.
Or write.
Or think.
Or try to spit out
even when your tongue is as tied as a shoelace

You’ll write anyway.
When he doesn’t read.
When he doesn’t care.
When he tells you you can’t write.
When he tells you you’re wrong.
You’ve misunderstood.
You’re too sensitive.

You’ll write
and breath
and cry
and speak.

And it’ll mean something,
to someone
somewhere.
Even if it means **** to him
Because he said it was wrong.