Shaping identity with every written word sounds bigger than how it actually feels for me. Most days, it’s just me at my kitchen table, hoodie on, coffee cooling, trying to pin down a feeling before it slips away. There’s something funny about how the words come out: sometimes loud, sometimes almost shy, sometimes like they’re not sure if they want to be seen at all. I’m learning that’s a part of what makes them mine.
The other morning, I was fussing over a draft that just would not listen. I’d written: “my skin remembers softness.” It wasn’t planned. I stared at it for a while, rereading, half-laughing because it felt like something my grandmother would’ve said in the middle of a story. I almost deleted it. I didn’t. That line felt honest in a way I don’t always let myself be—tender, a little risky, like it was reaching for something gentle in me that’s still learning how to speak.
Sometimes, queerness slips into my writing sideways, not as a statement but as a kind of quiet permission. I notice it most in the soft spots, the places where I let myself hold affection without apology. There’s a sweetness in letting my words be both bold and gentle, Black and queer and still learning what that means on the page. It’s messy, for sure. I always want the lines to be cleaner, but maybe the mess is where the real stuff happens.
I guess today’s small win is letting that one soft line stay. Not perfect, but real. I’m keeping it, at least for now. Some days, that’s enough.