I write, I bleed.

This morning, I’m Hemingway, bleeding at his typewriter.

This afternoon, I’m Plath, unable to still the voice inside.

Tonight, I am Fitzgerald, longing to write anew — something extraordinary and beautiful and simple and intricately patterned.

Today, I speak painful truths and destroy worlds to recreate lives. Today, I am the goddess of this world on paper.



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