I used to write all sorts of things–poetry, prose, vignettes, fiction. Nowadays I mostly do this, plus a letter here and there, and then my journal. When I’m feeling good to myself, or when I’m feeling alone.

I used to write things that rhymed, that followed a form.

I used to read these things out loud, in front of people, to dare to expose myself. I used to say openly that I wanted to be a writer.

Was it naivete? Or just one of the many pieces of myself that I let fall by the wayside?

Lately, I’ve been picking up the pieces. Saturday night, in my delirium, I wrote something that rhymes.

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