I heard a story, once,
About a woman convinced that bugs
Crawled beneath her scalp
She scratched and scratched
And scratched because she had to get them out

I write
Not because I want to create new worlds
Or entertain others
Or be recognized
But because I have all these words
Itching across my brain
I need to get them out somehow

So I scratch
Scratch pencil across paper
Slash red pen, leaving bloody marks
Tear upon the keyboard with thin nails
Until every word is out

If my compulsion leaves any scars
At least they aren’t physical