I write words down on paper in creative writing class, pondering if they are the right ones.

I write answers down on tests for calculus, knowing they are the wrong ones.

I write stories in my head of the places I will go and the things I will see, reminders on my hand so I won’t forget to call my mom, poems just because I saw something beautiful today.

I write and I write and I write.

I write papers for AP Lit, hoping I’ll getting a 100, but knowing Ms. Roberts isn’t so merciful.

I write essays for college applications, ensuring the admissions boards how “bright” my future will be.

I write about life, about death, about nature and birds and leaves falling off of trees.

I write and I write and I write.

I write about what it all means, to be on this earth.

I write about not knowing.

I write about how I feel or how I will feel or that I’ve never felt anything at all, empty phrases, vague similes, lines without purpose.

I write heart-wrenching sonnets, create lively characters, break old boundaries, trying and failing and finally succeeding.

I write and I write and I write,

until I’ve used up every last word.