I am a rough draft of an unfinished story.
More scribbles and scratch-outs than fully formed pages.
Rearranged and torn in two,
Rewritten and crossed-out and written anew.
I am wrinkled nights and broken mornings,
Blackened fingers and crumpled words.
Half-thoughts and almost-ideas left for tomorrow.
I am a page, bleeding ink,
Splotched with tears and tea-stains.
Spiral bound with bent wires and torn covers.
Loved and hated, fiercely possessed and easily discarded.
I am guarded secrets and hushed truths,
Hidden beneath layers of fiction.
I gather dust on the bottom shelf of an over-stuffed bookcase,
I am a burst of inspiration,
A frenzy of black and white smudged with gray fingerprints.
I am midnight mac-n-cheese and ice cream for breakfast.
I am candle smoke and flickering flame.
I am the cramps in fingers
Squeezed too long around an unforgiving pen.
I am every ache along every vertebra of a bent body.
I am drooping eyelids and lengthening shadows.
I am hope—caffeine-fueled and desperate.
I am defeat—emptiness and melting pillows.
Scalding showers washing sobs and ideas down a drain already clogged with shattered dreams.
I am pride and I am shame.
I am everything that could be and nothing that ever was.
I am a half-formed story, waiting for someday.