She writes because one day it will save her life. She writes and all the world halts. She writes from a place of anger. Despair is the political correctness that slices our throats. Leaving us unable to render the truth.
She writes because she says that she always has. Dust blown dreams cease to exist once the window has been shut closed. Strewn papers light her floor. If only she had a match. A burning desire to rid herself of all the reasons to etch each moment.
She writes because she doesn’t recognize time. A fossil grows on a beach now littered. Perhaps she will go for a swim. Her ankles weighed down by the stories that line her soul. It is a gift as well as a burden. To never grow old.