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Author’s Note: This poem was first drafted in 2015. This post marks its first appearance in print.

Write every day.
A writer writes—always.

They say it
like it’s so damn easy,
like it comes as natural as
combing your hair,
or brushing your teeth,
or checking your face in the mirror
and suddenly realizing one day:
it’s not your face
anymore.

It is easy, sometimes.
But not the way it sounds.
It’s easy like midnight cravings,
creeping up on you in the wee hours
when you know you should sleep
(but can’t)
when you know you shouldn’t,
but you’ve got to, because otherwise
it will haunt you
all
night
long.

And then you really can’t sleep,
because you know if you do
and don’t write that word,
unwrap that deliciously forbidden chocolate,
in the morning it will still be there
in the backdrop of your thoughts,
like a dream you can’t quite remember,
or a memory you nearly forgot.