I am a proofread, amended manuscript.
An altered
copy of the undesirable original
where history was unnecessarily edited:
Delete this. Add that.
I was broken down into parts,
each line, each word, each letter
declared this blue-eyed literary
initiative all wrong.
The authors claimed I was filled with
mistakes:
disconnected, superfluous,
unstructured,
fragmented.
Each page was rewritten
until I was nothing but
a collection of multiple revisions,
decidedly unfit for publication.
But authors don’t write stories.
Stories write stories.
I am my own story,
my own unfinished truth,
my own work in progress,
my own creative effort.
And in the beauty of our revisions is
where our story will be told.