I mix my tenses up when I’m nervous. My subjects, too. I switch from you to I to going to gone, and back to went. I poke my fingers into my writing again. And again. And yet again and all I get is a holy piece of shit that no one would give a second chance to. My characters, my thoughts, my presence - they’re all inconsistent. My point of view - inconsistent. Either that, or illogical. My words flop self consciously across paper and mash together to a mess of broken sentences and phrases.

All I want is to breathe good writing, to ache good writing, to sing, to taste, to sigh, to sweat good writing. I want to be good writing.

But I’m not.

So, instead, my wants are not my reality, my words are, and my words show everything about what I am: a disheveled, unorganized, inconsistent, backwards piece of work.

But maybe my writing, maybe I, can be beautiful sometimes, too.