I have been typing for so long and yet I hardly have two lines. I keep writing and then pressing the backspace button. Type and erase, type and erase, type and erase. It’s so easy. Convenient. I can make mistakes safely on the Word file in my laptop and then expunge their presence like they never happened. Like I’m always grammatically correct and I always have the most eloquent words at my disposal. Like my mind is the soul of literature and my fingers are the ink. Like I’ll sit down and write and write and write and- surprise, susprise!- here’s a masterpiece.

No. I’m not. I’m as far from it as it gets. I’m a torn painting that I can sometimes stitch together when I have enough thread left to spare. I’m broken pieces of a stained glass window with graffiti covering the spiral flowers. I’m ashes and dust and rubble and shadows and a culmination of mistakes that span through twenty fucking years and it has all become so permanently etched inside my skin that my tattoos look like cobwebs in an abandoned attic.

I could show you all of it. I could lay down my unfiltered, ungrammarchecked, unsophisticated, unerased, unmitigated disastrous self. It’s much easier, trust me. I could just cut myself and open and let you make sense of everything that flows outside my mostly empty body. You wouldn’t understand a thing though, and I wouldn’t feel even a tad bit better. So what’s the point? Let me just erase all of this and start over again.

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