Words repeat in my head. I think of a bounce house. Up and down. Up and down. Against the sides and back again. Eventually they need to come out. So I write. Fingers tap on a keyboard or conduct a pen. The words are unsteady to start. They can’t quite stand after all that bouncing. After a while, they start to become more fluid and upright. They make sense. They look like who they are. I push them along with my gray keys or blue Papermate. March march march. I am bewitched. I can’t see out the sides of my eyes. I only see them. Only feel them moving through me. It is good to feel them and not myself.
But when you ask me to write for you. I only see you. Your ideas about me. About the words. Your face when you read them. I fixate on your face and the words blur and wobble.
This is why I can’t write for you.
I have to write for me.