Writing does not come easily. Not at the writing desk with a mug where dreams rise like steam clouds. Not on the yellowed paper diary, tucked around the perfect black ink pen.
Never. My writing has stopped being convenient, stopped showing up when invited, so often now, I don’t bother.
Instead, she is a silent gatecrasher. Instead now, I am guilty of looking away.
Instead, the hum of the sunset against the car window- where pen and paper isn’t an option. Instead, I need to go take a shower, finish making this presentation, finish thinking about each story I carry in my head that isn’t fictional, finish the to-do list,
Writing comes in between me and the tidiness I strive for in my days.
So here I am. Still in my work clothes at 9.26pm on a Saturday with my tabs open to material for a presentation, and my towel waiting on the shower rack, and a white t-shirt with a quote about the sea on it, which I will wear later to the airport.
Writing surrounds me always, and I keep telling her, not now. Not here. Not this way.
If I’m not careful, I’ll tie myself into knots, just to keep things tidy.
That is not how I began, but it is how I’ve become.
So here’s to a month of Unbecoming. Detangling. Unknotting. Untying. Retying. A month of letting poetry stand behind me, running her quicksilver fingers through my hair.
Like so many poets and writers across the world, I’m making April some promises.
I insist I am safe, even if I break them.
Today is the day of fools, after all.
If you could see the inside of my forehead,
You would not be able to read-
Beneath my eyelids
scratched out billboards
I close my eyes-
I am always tripping
Over the words
Sometimes, if I am lucky
I can feel poetry’s breath
On the nape of my neck
Her fingers dissolving all the questions
In my wild hair,
Until my eyelids are wiped clean
Until the mirror
Faces now, here.