she said you

you’re a

do you

write?

I said

well

I think the words are

trying to get out of me

like

the words are

writing me

and

I am just a

a body

a

shape

that

holds

them

in.

I give them

structure!

Is that what they meant, those

writing professors in their

tweed jackets and warby

parker,

their

curious judgements of my

vocabulary choices?

It is less about the way you want to

mash words up! put them together!

and more about giving them room to

breath! come alive!

I can feel letters collecting in my bloodstream

oxford commas, muscle tissue,

my brain is composed of

periods and dashes and little

asterisks.

I walk down the street, and as I go,

stories drop off of me like weights

things I see, composing

dialogues that never happened.

he said you

do you

did you

are you writing

or is it writing you?

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