There is nothing like the smell – and feel – of sharpened lead. The way it introduces itself to paper. Sometimes coquettishly, flirting in pirouettes. Sometimes with a bold extended hand. The struggle as it spurts and yanks against itself, pleading for the right words to bleed out. The cadence of commas, the breath of a dash – and the smugness of a semicolon. All phrases demanding top billing, their fragile egos petrified that the imposter syndrome will unveil itself upon them. “Not in my sentence,” it laughs – but strained – so only the intently listening can hear. I fear the words and stories that lay in the back of mind, for they are fierce and not to be argued with if they are not uprooted and replanted on paper. I am not in control. Their words, not mine. Banging for release and unapologetic in their demand for freedom. Their words; not mine.