Some days the poems arrive like someone humming in the next room—just quiet enough to make me lean in. I keep thinking about the way a line presses at the back of my mind, stubborn and soft, the way “Whispers That Push Me to the Page” describes. It’s not a thunderclap. It’s the gentle nudge of something wanting to be noticed.
Last Tuesday, I was folding laundry on the bed (yes, the laundry that’s been there since Saturday, don’t judge me), and out of nowhere, the phrase “sunlight doesn’t ask permission” slipped into my head. I stood there holding a sock, just staring at it, feeling a little silly and a little grateful. My body kind of knew it first—something in my chest loosened, like I’d finally exhaled.
There’s something about being Black and queer and tender that means I’m always writing with a little bit of extra listening. I don’t mean anything mystical—just that I grew up learning to hear what wasn’t said, to feel what wasn’t named. So when that line showed up, it felt like a small, private celebration. A reminder that I get to claim softness, even in the mess of everyday chores and half-finished drafts.
I’m learning that the best lines don’t always announce themselves. Sometimes they tiptoe in, barefoot, and it’s up to me to catch them before they wander off. And maybe that’s the real magic: not chasing the poem, but letting it sit with me, right in the middle of my regular, beautiful, queer life.
Right now, I’m just grateful for the whispers that show up and for the quiet permission to answer back.