I write because I yearn to be a perfect final draft every time I show up.
I write because I cannot erase different versions of myself that I wish were never seen.
I write because my pain is too deep to not leave a stain or three on most paths that I author.
I write because I come from a line of writers who only showed me the final draft after emptying out their overflowing trash bins.
I write because self-compassion is that orange flyer at the bottom of the stale pile of words I will one day read.
I write because the coffee-stained crumpled-up version of myself cannot seem to find the cosmetic backbone it needs to show up as a final draft first.
I write because I remember that a messy first draft can be reckoned with until redemption.
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