Writing…pouring my soul into a notebook…someone reaches to read it out of boredom…I snatch it back…no…no one can see…but you saw…and somehow I'm still here…somehow it didn't kill me…maybe someone else can read it too…maybe it's okay for other people to see…maybe I can change…maybe I can walk up to someone and say I love you and mean it and not blush…maybe I'll just sit and write…and when I'm done forget the significance but I'm still changed…I don't need to write a great long novel…just little dialogues…paragraphs…an emotion here and there…that's what people are…emotions inside our flesh…skin covers us…protects us…writing tears off your skin…lets people see inside…letting people in…now you're human…not a stuffed animal anymore…now you can love and rage and cry…people write books…sell out…make money…but writing is just words on a page…words with soul…even one line…if it has soul…if it comes from the soul…it's worth something…just to you…but it's worth it…it's out there…write words down on a page and you can't take them back…you can rip it up…burn it…eat it…but they're still there…burned in front of your eyes…type it up and delete it but the computer records every keystroke…it knows your secrets…you write something and you're never safe again…at least you're human now.