When I put the pen to paper, I feel my body come alive. I feel the pulse through my fingertips, the adrenaline rushing from my toes through my spine to my arms.
It’s as if the pen is an extension of my mind, my words spilling out effortlessly.
I feel like the purest form of myself is waking up, is stretching across the paper, is filling all the empty lines and spaces of my heart fully, fearlessly.
It is in those moments, as my hands fly across the page or my fingers click against the keyboard, that I long to be understood.
I long for someone who will be captivated by the sentences slipping from my lips, from my fingertips. Who will cherish each word I write, roll them around on his tongue, and drink them in.
I want a man who will love the writer in me. Who will accept the chewed tips of pencils, the crumpled draft pages sprinkled on my carpet, the jumbled mess of thoughts that seem to creep their way into common conversation. Who will love me for each of those things.
I want someone who will understand how I lose myself in my words.
How I taste each syllable before putting it to paper. How I write and rewrite and read aloud just to feel the rhythm of each sentence. How, when I begin a draft, I completely fall into the poem, the story, the characters’ minds to the point that our lives are intertwined, tangled.
How I think this is so incredibly beautiful.
I want someone who loves that my words come from a far-away, yet familiar place of wanting no more than to just escape, to be set free onto the paper.
I want a man who understands that writing is liberating, is terrifying. That to be a writer is to be passionate and rooted in self-contemplation, in deep thinking, in over-thinking.
That writing is equivalent to loving because you do both so tenderly, so fearlessly.
The writer in me is both timid and bold, driven and wild, and so very honest.
I want someone who will love all those pieces of me, who will know that when I write, I bleed across pages, I open my mind and let it run and run and run.
I want someone who sees my vulnerability, my fear, my openness.
Who sees that I will forever be led by the words I write.
And will love me just the same.