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I realized I am not really a writer.
I am merely a girl
who has a ridiculously dramatic life
and runs to the waiting arms
of marking paper with words
when the pains and convolutedness of living
become unbearable.

I am neither a poet nor a storyteller
only a slightly neurotic woman-child
who actually thinks it’s something to be thankful for
that she didn’t major in creative writing or similar
and never qualified for those conferences
because she thinks she’d be completely lost
without the rawness and immaturity of her vocabulary
and the way her pseudo-lines are structured.

I’m not really meant to be read
I’m not good enough to be published
because I am not a writer,
just a reader who likes living
so intensely
that every time I read something good
insecurity attacks me on all sides
and insignificance threatens to consign
the molecules of my person to nonexistence.