Write me, one says. No! Write me first! says another. Their voices grow in volume and succession until I have to open my eyes to block the sound away.
My stories, I feel like they need me. You need us more, one snaps back. Without us, do you even know who you are?
One creeps up from under the bed. He wraps his body around me, slithering from my leg to my crotch, from my chest to my neck. Write me first, he begs.
Write me, they command. I get up from my bed, brush the dust off my laptop and clack away.
♫: Eliza Doolittle | Empty Hand (2010)