We've all heard that writing is a great stress-reliever. It can be the key to a healthy mental state. M.D. Celeste Robb-Nicholson even writes that "writing helps people to organize thoughts and give meaning to a traumatic experience" in her article. So, in other words, writing is an excellent coping mechanism.

More specifically, writing is my coping method. I believe in fight, flight or write where some believe in fight or flight. I tend to cope by way of stanzas and

line

breaks.

To my poetry, I would like to say that I love you. I love you because you give me an outlet when things go wrong. You are my favorite hiding place, complete with metaphorical safety blanket and plenty of word games. I love you because you are the only thing I can trust to keep my secrets, all scribbled out in chicken-scratch handwriting where no one can find them unless I want them to.

You are confident. You are unshakable in the certainty you have for my words. You always defend my emotions to the last line.

To my poetry, I would like to say that even though I love you, I hate you. I hate you because you remind me of every mistake I've ever made and I hate you because you keep photographic evidence of every bruise and beating I've ever taken from Life. Like snapshots of your favorite moments, my traumas splash across your pages in permanent ink. I hate you because you never come out right, like the words that constantly get tied up in my throat, mangled and twisted around my tonsils, unable to escape. I hate you.

You are arrogant and ignorant. You represent and misrepresent; you accurately portray the faces of my demons while simultaneously morphing them into monsters I would never recognize as my own. You're out of control.

To my poetry, I would like to say thank you. Thank you for always being there, ready to rescue the imperfect words from my throat and lay them out in black fine-point stanzas to dry. Thank you for never letting me forget the bad things that have happened to me; thank you for always reminding me of how far I've come.

You listen when no one else can or will. You help me cope with the intangible thoughts inside my head. You provide a sense of organization in this chaotic world. You save my life again every time I write you.

From my experience, it's true that writing can "give meaning to a traumatic experience." Better yet, Robb-Nicholson says, "the process of writing may enable [people] to learn to better regulate their emotions." My poetry terrifies me beyond reason sometimes, but that's what art does, right? It's meant to evoke emotion in others.

So, to my poetry, I would like to say you are art. And you are so beautiful.