When I was younger, writing was rewarded. And even when it was absolute **** and it often was, thinking and creating and imaging was worthy in itself and my classrooms were filled with little kids' notebooks and these notebooks were filled with stories and poems and songs. And everyone raised their tiny, sticky hands, bouncing in their seats, hoping to be called on to share the worlds they'd created to the class. And no one ever made you feel bad for wanting to write.

But notebooks and sparkly pens and short stories of imaginary creatures began to disappear as I grew up. I stopped wanting to tell people, to share as I started realizing these words were actually the delicate and unique imprint of my insides and it might break and shatter if I gave it to the world. I started clinging my notebooks to my skin, hot with fear that I would leave them alone to unknown eyes. But no one really wants to read them anyway, no one really knows what to say if I ask, "Can I read you my poem today?" And suddenly exposure is not fun and playful and worthy but awkward and shameful like, "Who are you to think you are so interesting?" I stopped wanting to 'be a writer' because I started to forget what being a writer meant. People said it meant sulking with a jug of black coffee to keep me alive while others went out to work 9 to 5 and began to whisper about me.

But I can't escape being a writer because even when the rewards, the praise are gone, I write. Even when I'm terrified everything on these pages is awful, and it seems the most painful and terrible option to let someone else into this world, I write. Even when I face the truth, that I might not make one penny as a 'writer' (whatever it does mean), I write. Even when writing is hard and its mean to me and it says, 'Go away, I don't want you anymore. Stop trying. Give up. Go home,' I write. Even when I am critiqued, laughed at, rejected, I take those whispers and I turn them into poems, stories, songs and I still write.

And no matter what happens no one can take that from me.
I'm a writer and I'll always be.

I struggle with the delicate dichotomy
between forgiveness and respecting myself.
And sometimes when I feel the ground slipping, shaking
under my feet , I want to give up
give in
use 'forgive' to justify my weakness.
And then all the poisonous voices
that are screaming at me,
pounding my windows and rattling my walls
would be allowed back in.

And I would **** up their venom
but at least I wouldn't be so tired.

Because it takes so much energy when my enemies throw forgiveness in my face,
combat me with calls to love, forgive, to let them in,
and I have to say, 'Not today.'
And I feel like a terrible person.

Dancing on that thin line between forgiving
and letting others walk all over me.
And if I keep confusing the two,
if I don't figure it out soon,
I'm afraid I may be trampled.

But today I still sit here, inside my own heart,
peering out the holes and trying to decipher which faces are genuine.
But either way someone will always tell me I'm wrong.

So I have to choose my own path.
Where forgiveness doesn't mean what you did was okay.
It just means that I can be strong and weak and trampled and whole.
And in the end it has nothing to do with you.
So stop telling me to or not to because I will decide.
And maybe I will let go of my hatred, my anger
but I will not move back.
I'll move on.

That can be forgiveness too.
The most beautiful kind, where I don't have to sacrifice my self-love to please you.

A dangerous mixture, that music and sunshine.
Yellow rays pumping at my skin.
Beats, guitars and jazzy horns pumping into my head.
My body and mind so full, I believe I can take on the world.
Reckless.
Unafraid to dance in the open blue sky.
I don't care....
about anything that usually scares me.
Can't keep still.
Can't not smile.
Teeth and skin baring and if you saw me, you'd think,
"She's on fire."
I'd make you warm.
It's in my stomach.
It's bubblin over.
Indestructible.
Unbreakable.
Built from the ground up--
walking on spring and song.
My feet hitting the pavement
in the same rhythm of that voice that sings,
that voice in me,
matching the earth's steady pattern as I beat on.

They sing to me.
Igniting nostalgia familiar to my core. My bones vibrate
at the feelings of
loss
longing
desire--to grasp this strange phenomenon.
Only in the love songs,
the poems,
the movies,
can they articulate that something that makes me think,
of the overlap of my old torn love for another,
and you still by my side when he broke me.
And I don't think I'll ever understand that
in a way that you can know.
Because I'm safe in this private space
where I can accept my ties to you, but I can never tell you.
I feel lost.
Ashamed, that I don't know myself well enough to talk to you.
To figure this out. This pull,
this fear. This question--why can't I stop imaging you could be...
or maybe I'm just taking the best of you
in an attempt to heal me.

So I'm left swimming through the music,
searching for my breath.
And an answer.

Saturday night and your guilty pleasures.
Sad movies and ice cream.
You know which film will draw water from your veins
tears from the blue of your eyes
they mist over, every time,
at the same part
a clench releases in your heart,
and you know those words,
that moment,
those characters--
will get to you.
And you just want to be gotten to.

Not caring today
about the calories printed on the carton.
You put it back in the freezer without a glance or a thought.
Carry the bowl to the couch and carve out spoonfuls.
Just waiting for that catharsis
as the cold melts into your tongue, blending with the warmth of your breath,
your sticky lips.
You cry, just to know you are real
even if this isn't.

And then you click the remote,
watch the screen zip to black.
Take an especially long time rinsing out the bowl.
Thinking only of the frozen lines of residue
before you put it away--clean.

And go to bed.

We love each other
cautiously.
At a distance, where we
can soak in our own confusion
in our comfort knowing we're safe as we are.

So we don't share our matching thoughts--
that we both wonder what could be.
Instead, pretending nothing's happening and pretending we are happy.

We're so close
but we keep our hearts apart.
And we
never ever dare
to act like this isn't enough.

We loved so much
that it oozed out our bodies,
bled from our skin,
tore us apart
and destroyed us again and again.

Too strong
to simply warm the air between us,
spark the night we lived inside,
it burned us too,
traveled like a fire and left only smoke behind.

But while the flames are dancing,
We're captivated.
Unconcerned with anything but that moment.
A dangerous focus.

But I wouldn't put it out
to suffocate the pain.
I would burn all over for you again.