I sometimes write Of stories and fantasies And these words spill from my fingers Frighteningly effortlessly as they tell Of passionate romances and crushing heart shatters and death of innocence But I've never felt these things and I feel fraudulent and cruel Claiming feelings to which I have no right And I wonder where these words come from that Spill so easily from my finger tips Because they aren't from experience And they aren't true Rereading them only embarrasses and confuses me So should I validate them at all? Mom peers at me worriedly as I try to convince her that I only used first person for form purposes As I try to prove to her that this was (some bizarre) imagination and not some reality she wasn't aware of
I don't know how a kiss would feel on my lips. Love and infatuation are strangers to my heart and mind. I don't know how it hurts to be truly rejected or hated by someone I love. To be so enraptured in someone else that the lines between us fade: a foreign and unfamiliar concept to my soul. I don't know how hard it is to make mistakes in romances. I've never come home giddy and unable to stop smiling because of a boy. I don't know. There's so very much I do not know. And the absence of that knowledge feels like an object I don't have a place for inside my home of a mind. Awkward and in the way and too obvious But I don't know if I want to get rid of it yet. It's oddity has become a part of me, And it's absence would mean grieving a change I'm not prepared for.
Exploring what it means to be a writer and getting some thoughts out.