There is a version of me that only appears when ink touches a page,
or when my mind decides it's time to spill its truths.
When it happens, it takes over writing on and on,
pouring out desires I can't yet touch,
fears I'm not ready to admit,
longings that feel safer captured in words than spoken aloud.

Maybe writing is the only place I let myself become who I truly am.
Maybe this version saw, restless, unhidden is the real me,
and the person you think you know is just the mask I learned to wear.

Make of it what you will.
My books, my chapters, my stories
somewhere within them, you might find a piece of yourself,
a memory, a desire or even wanting.