before

I don’t want to read what came before.
I don’t want to trace the lines I’ve already drawn, polish them, correct them, pretend they ever knew where they were going.
I want to write forward, blindfolded, barefoot, trusting the stumble as much as the step.\

i want to improvise. to let the words fall out crooked, trembling, alive.
I want to be perfect in my imperfection, to make beauty from the accident, to let the story find me mid-sentence, mid-breath, mid-chaos.\

I want to write from memory, not accuracy, from the way things felt, not the way they happened.
I want to write as if the past were a rumor, as if the truth were only a version that once existed and no longer matters.

I don’t want to reread.
I don’t want to fix it.
I want the mistakes to stay, to grow roots, to show that I was here, that I was human enough to miss a beat and still call it a song.

This is my story, written without rehearsal, without edits, without the burden of perfection.
Just fragments of me scattered on the page, unfinished, uneven, but real.