My punctuation is out of place and improperly used. Some words are TALL in all the wrong spaces. The words I choose have been chosen before and will be again. Their meanings elongated, drawn out, squeezed of all insinuation. 

I don’t write for you. 

Your understanding is oft mistaken. You reshape the intention to fit your mold. The experience is duller and buffed down to the nub of it, because your eyes have landed on but a single line buried within the passage. 

I don’t write for you.

You told me once what you thought of my words. How they were juvenile, fell flat, were flaccid interpretations of would-be profound wisdom. You mocked them and shared that had you put your words to paper, they would far exceed my own. Had you only taken the time to show me up, you would. 

I don’t write for you. 

To see the truth behind what we had. To see yourself laid open from my eyes. To behold yourself beauteous beyond what little any of us can know of ourselves. 

I don’t write for you, 

     to approve, to understand, to relate, to find fault or failings, to critique, or to call out. 

If I did, I could never be as honest, as pained, as perseverant, as ignorant, as indecisive, as verbose, as open, as vulnerable, as naive. If I wrote for you, I would be forced to choose my words wisely so they would speak to you and not from within. If I wrote for you, I would find myself judged thrice, by me, by you, by me once more. If I wrote for you, my words would stay welled within me, my inkwell ran dry, my paper unscathed by the tip of any pen. If I wrote for you, you would never find it to be enough and nor would I. 

If I wrote for you, who would write for me?