I wish my blood was made of words travelling through vein-like phrases. My body a whole dictionary, my organs novels and encyclopaedias. I would breathe in letters, exhale metaphors, bite into punctuation, commas between my teeth, soliloquies down my larynx, epistolary journals against my lungs, and poetry, like oxygen, around my heart. 

I wish...I wish I could be literature so that maybe, just maybe, my fingers would learn the patterns of story telling and my mind would know the secrets of word-weaving, like a shuttle on a loom. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly building the colours, weaving my word-skin into the tapestry, and finally say: here, look, this is who I am. 

- MJ Letourneau