Where do I write from?

I write from memories, from current emotions. I write under the table
and over my head. I hesitate because of what my sister said. I write
from deep down to just beneath the surface of my skin. I write from
happiness, from everything lodged inside. I write because of the way
you judge and the remarks you make. I write to keep myself from saying
all these things out loud. I write as a resource, a mechanism. A large
pool of hope and promise lies beyond every page, yet when I reach it
I've already been taken by sleep's gentle grasp. I write for freedom
and for organization, for regimen and for control. I write to
understand my appearance and why you can't. I write so that I no longer
stain paper with salt water. I write so that red may lose its shine and
so that I can be at peace again with lackluster flesh. I write when the
tablets have lost their effect and when the sun has just begun to rise.
I write when my ability not to has worn off, faded away.