I write because the paper is the only one who will listen to me.
My whispers and shouts alike fell upon deaf ears until I picked up my pencil.
Blind eyes looked through me before they read my words.
Fingers that could barely trace my outline can embrace me after flipping through my pages.
I write because my invisibility had become a security blanket that I no longer wanted to need.
I write, and now my visibility is a luxury I never knew I had so long desired.