I want to believe that I am not nothing. That I am a conflagration struggling against the crushing darkness. That I am a flare of light, ephemeral and inconsequential but brilliant and visible, nonetheless. I want to believe that I am not the monster I have always feared. That I have weaving fingers and unwavering hands that hold and cradle and carry. That my shoulders have known tears and my tears have known shoulders. I want to believe that I am not a desecrated ruin that can only weather the storm by staying dead and broken. That my glass innards are fractured and unwhole but form colored spider webs from shades of my blood. That my parched skin is merely paper begging for the taste of ink. That there is a story waiting to be written. That there is someone willing to write it. I want to believe that I am a survivor. That I can break and topple and crumble into shambles and rise five minutes later and keep walking without looking back. That I am not hollow inside. That I am not a completely horrible creature. That I float on hurricanes.

I want to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to know that I want to believe in these things.

I want to tell someone a story. A story about fire and monsters and hands and hugs and buildings and glass and writers and towers and hurricanes. A story about believing.

But there is one thing I want more than anything—

I want to be a story.