She, a writer

If there is but one truth 
that is constant about me, 
it’s that I write all the time. 
I am every day bent over a text 
be it a chapter of my novel, 
a journal entry, a poem. 
I write to explain, to make sense. 
I write to reassure myself. 
I write to let out the pressure 
that builds up on the inside. 
I write lists, plans, letters, 
feelings, projects, ideas. 
I make notes on my own life. 

I write to praise or condemn 
the world and body I call mine. 
I write notes of thanks 
to the people that love me. 
I fill notebooks by the dozen, 
have lost count of the digital pages 
covered with a neater version 
of my tidal handwriting. 
In a dream I own a collection 
bound in dark blue fabric 
of everything, absolutely everything, 
that I have ever put to paper. 
And on the back it says, 
“Valentine was a writer, 
because she wrote all the time.”