There’s something real about the way gentle lines whisper while I write. Not every day, but sometimes, it’s like my hands are listening for the softest part of me. I’m at my little desk with chipped paint, just trying to get through a draft, when a line slides in sideways. It wasn’t on the plan. It wasn’t even in the room until suddenly it’s there, leaning against the edge of the page, waiting for me to notice.
The line was simple: my shoulders remembering how to be soft. It came out of nowhere, but also out of everywhere I’ve ever been. I had to pause, just sit there and let it settle. My body felt it first—a little loosening, like the line had reached back through years of trying to keep things tight and neat. Sometimes, being Black and queer, I want my poems to hold all the tenderness I didn’t always see in the world. Sometimes I want them to be soft on purpose, like a quiet rebellion.
I laughed a little, honestly, because that line was not what I meant to write. It was too honest, maybe. Or too much like me on a Tuesday afternoon, thinking about how queerness and softness sneak into the work even when I’m not trying. The mess of my drafts feels like a safe place for that. No pressure to make it perfect, just letting the words wander, seeing what they bring back.
I guess I’m learning that my writing voice is shaped by every gentle thing I let in. Not just the big feelings, but the small, surprising ones. Maybe the line will stay, maybe not. But for now, it’s enough to sit with it, let it whisper, and keep going.