I read books written by other people
(obviously)
and when they say
that writing saved their life
I feel dejected
because I want to say the same
but don’t feel like I can.

I want to be ‘like them’
but tell myself I’m not
because I am nobody
but a small measly voice
whispering into the abyss,
the ever-growing noise in the vastness
swallowing my words.

Moments later
I walk from the living room
to my bedroom
and gaze upon the stacks of notebooks
in the corner.
I flip through the ink-covered pages,
including in the book used today.

Perhaps my perception has been flawed.
Perhaps my life, too,
has been saved
and is being saved
by writing.