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i’ll drown my days in sunlit skin and milky baths, scribbling endlessly on an empty paper, planning my future in big dreams with little things mixed in between, pretending i don’t want to be a writer.

pretending my skin doesn’t yearn to be torn in the edges of rough paper, and my mind can settle into a content life of pasty white smiles and bridesmaids and halloween parties spent pretending i fit in.
pretending my blood doesn’t boil when a word is used incorrectly, my hands twitching in anticipation, dreaming of holding a pen delicately in my hand, the blue ink spiraling page, after page. pretending the drive and thirst of literature doesn’t settle my long-ago buried memories of tracing a thin blade delicately through my ghostly white wrist.

pretending that i always wanted this.

if i cannot be a writer, and i cannot be a writer, i will bury those feelings so far within. for i fear if i become a writer, not even the galaxies colliding, the world ending, war and famine wished upon my family could keep me in.

if i become a writer, my list for literature will purge away my sins. i will lose myself to the rebirth, the horror, the unknown, of what i might become.

of who, i am afraid, i have always been.

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© lilahlethogica