I write from memories, from current emotions. I write under the table and over my head. I hesitate because of what my sister said. I write from deep down to just beneath the surface of my skin. I write from happiness, from everything lodged inside. I write because of the way you judge and the remarks you make. I write to keep myself from saying all these things out loud. I write as a resource, a mechanism. A large pool of hope and promise lies beyond every page, yet when I reach it I've already been taken by sleep's gentle grasp. I write for freedom and for organization, for regimen and for control. I write to understand my appearance and why you can't. I write so that I no longer stain paper with salt water. I write so that red may lose its shine and so that I can be at peace again with lackluster flesh. I write when the tablets have lost their effect and when the sun has just begun to rise. I write when my ability not to has worn off, faded away.