why i write

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when asked who i wanted to be

i don’t remember ever saying i wanted to be a writer

i never thought of writing as something you could do as a job

i would though sit down and stab my notebook with a pen

make it bleed and fill it’s pages

while insomnia kept me company

i was seven the first time i grabbed an extra notebook

while back-to-school shopping

to put together invented sentences

songs, i called them

then poetry

i would write about the kind of love i wanted for myself

according to what i had learned in movies

i would write about parents who abandoned their little girl

let her grow up faster than she should’ve

try to solve the riddles pop-ups on the internet left in my mind

by the time i was thirteen

i was calling “love” every strange feeling i couldn’t understand

fill pages with hearts,

write inside them my name and the name of the little asshole with green eyes

“he acts like that because he likes you” my friend always said

and i believed it, convinced myself to like him back

ignore the red flags, the uncomfortable feeling

write it all down, like conjuring a spell that would make me “normal”

every child is a little bit dramatic, right?

i was so, i ended up majoring in theater

it took me a long time to see myself as a writer

i didn’t dare to call myself that until i took some classes

and ended up also majoring in creative writing

for a while, i dreamed of success

of being a published writer

be known for great lyrics to powerful songs

deep meaningful poetry

and steamy erotic auto-fiction

leave something great for when i die

be eternal

but right now i’m —

tiredconfusedlonelyspeechlessboredhopeless

sounding a lot like a pessimist

with no intention of inspiring anyone

or creating something beautiful

memorable

eternal

i even stopped writing for a long time

because i felt like i wasn’t deserving

i thought that if i didn’t have anything nice to write

something relatable that could catch someone’s attention

get me enough likes, give me a taste of success

or meet my deadlines, hand over that manuscript

it has been sitting in my desktop since forever

has suffered enough strikeouts,

but “it’s still a work in progress”

what is the point? why should i call myself a writer?

well, a writer is a person who writes, nothing else

so i’m taking back that power

to put into words what i feel

the pretty and the ugly

the relatable and whatever is so mine, no one else could understand

i’ll be a pessimist if i feel like it

because most times, life sucks

and there’s really no point pretending it doesn’t

i’ll write it all down

and my writing

will owe nothing to no one

but writing itself