There’s this thing that happens sometimes, in the middle of a line, when writing stings before it soothes. I always think I’m prepared for it, but then there it is: a word that lands sharp and bright, like a tiny pebble in my shoe. The line showed up last night while I was trying to avoid my own thoughts, scrolling too late, a little hungry. It slipped in, almost rude, but I recognized it as mine.
It was just a phrase about my mother’s hands, nothing grand, but I felt it before I understood it. I mean that literally—my shoulders tensed, my jaw did a small protest. The words were softer than I expected, almost shy, but they pressed right into a spot I thought I’d tucked away. Most of my drafts look like this: a mess of feelings, some gentle, some not, all tangled up.
Being Black and queer, I think my writing voice is always half-listening for softness, half-bracing for a sting. That’s the dance, right? I want to be tender with myself, but sometimes the poem gets there before I do. It’s funny, in a way, how a line can feel like both a scratch and a balm, depending on the day.
I’m learning (slowly, gently) that it’s okay if my words don’t soothe right away. Sometimes they’re just honest, and that honesty is a little salt in the wound. But then, after sitting with it, the sting fades and I’m left with something warm. Not perfect, not finished, but real enough for now.
So I keep the line, awkward and soft and a little sharp. I let it sit with me, like a friend who doesn’t need to fix anything. That’s where the writing feels most like home.