I write.

Why?

Well, it began because I loved words, could leap over them faster than my classmates, quickly learned what it was to stack them like blocks and knock them down.
I was good at it, you see.

Now?

I write to scream. To keep myself from screaming. I sing when I write, I hit just the right pitches, don't you hear? My words are the gymnast I am and the gymnast I never can be, they elevate and I watch, they are nonsense and so goddamn clear.

I write about you. I write about what's not about you. You are sometimes what I write, but never why. Do you know who you are? Do you try to find yourself in my syntax? What would you think if I wrote you out, deleted you with a swift press of backspace?

I write to be tall, to be pretty, to be enraged, to remind myself of humor. I write to race, I write to obfuscate, I write to clarify and mystify you with simplicity. I want you to be bewildered and torn and thrown to your knees. I contradict. I make perfect sense. I slash cliches.

I can't write when I'm bleeding, only after the scar begins. I write with joy, write when I am joyous. Write to draw you into the dance with me, around and around until we fall down breathless.