Sometimes I think about how poems just won’t leave me alone. Like the other night, I was trying to mind my business and make a sandwich, and suddenly this line just landed in my mouth. Not even in my head, but right there on my tongue, like it wanted to be spoken before I even knew what it meant. I stood there with mustard on my fingers, repeating the words under my breath, feeling them get comfortable in my mouth.
It’s funny how a line can feel like it’s always been yours, even if you’ve never said it before. I scribbled it down on the back of a grocery receipt, handwriting all crooked because I was rushing. There’s something a little queer about the way words show up—unexpected, a little sideways, not asking for permission. I think about how I’ve always carried this softness, how it leaks into everything I write, how it’s shaped by the way I move through the world. Sometimes I wish I could write sharp, loud things, but even my boldest lines end up gentle, like they’re holding hands with me.
I guess that’s the real surprise: the poem comes in, makes itself at home, and by the time I read it back, I can see myself in it. Not just the me that’s easy to show, but the quiet, soft me, the me that’s still learning to love the sound of my own voice. There’s comfort in that messiness, in the way a draft looks like a small, queer celebration of honesty before it’s cleaned up. I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I know when a line feels right in my body. That’s enough for now.
Here’s to the poems that insist on being written down, even when I’m covered in mustard.