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.