Work in Progress

I write because my first draft in life is often messy.

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.