Writers are terribly dangerous.
Sometimes to others, mostly to ourselves.
Writers take everything personally.
We’ll compare your love to every mundane thing and make it sound so beautiful that you won’t be able to drink your morning coffee without tasting our bitter tongues.
Writers will turn every inch of you into a metaphor until you accept that your eyes are not just blue, they are pacific tides crashing against the shore.
Writers can romanticize anything and you won’t be able to pass a garden without thinking of how we told you Daffodils were our favourite because they knew everyone’s wishes.
Writers have irrational priorities. We forget to listen to the song you’re playing for us because we’re too busy noticing how you mouth along with the lines that resonate within you.
Writers have impeccable memories. We’ll forget about our doctor appointments even with the reminder card on our dashboard but we’ll know exactly where your freckles lie and the story behind all your scars.
Writers will transform your world into organized stanzas strung together with a catchy flow and a brutal sincerity and late at nite when you can’t sleep alone in your california king bed you’ll wonder how they would have written about your day if they were still around.
But worst of all, when the tie is cut between you and the writer, they’ll still write about you.
And it will hurt.