Heart Stamp

  "Why do you write?" they asked her. She didn't know. No, she did. But how could she explain it?
   She wrote because there was an itch in her heart that pounded on the inside, shook up her soul, scratched like an animal outside on a moonlit night trying to get into the garbage.
  She wrote because her words looked important, all spilled out into the paper, the night-black ink permanently residing on its new pristine background. Proud. Regal. Like how she wanted to be if she had the confidence and courage and strength. And it would stay there. It would last. She wouldn't. But her words might.
  She wrote because writing made her eternal. Because if people took her words to heart, I mean, if they were that important, and if they crept to the back of people's heads and snuggled up there all quiet-as-a-sleepy-child-like, and people wanted to remember them, they would. They might not remember her. But they would remember her words. And that, to the Ordinary Princess, was what really mattered.
  She wrote because when she wrote it was more than just writing. Mere words, printed out, crumpled up in harsh hands, tossed carelessly aside and trampled by heartless shoes. Her writing was a stamp. A branding on the heart. Because when someone reads her writing, that someone might just take those words to heart. And then, guess what? They're branded. A stamp on the heart. And those words mean something. Now. And forevermore.
  She writes because she has to.
  She writes because.
  She writes.