Shaping myself, one draft at a time, still feels like an inside joke between me and my laptop. I sit down with all my good intentions, and the words show up with their hair undone, shoes kicked off, refusing to act proper. It’s messy, but maybe that’s the point.
Last night, a line came out of nowhere: something like, “I carry softness in my knuckles.” I almost laughed at myself. It’s not the kind of thing I would say out loud, but there it was, waiting for me on the page. I didn’t plan for it. My brain was still catching up, but my hands had already typed it. Sometimes the queerness of my voice slips in before I even notice — gentle, a little sideways, not trying to impress anyone, just honest. I love that. It makes the poem feel like home, even before it’s finished.
It’s funny how a line like that can nudge me into remembering who I am — Black, tender, a little bit stubborn, always looking for the soft place to land. I never know if I’m shaping the poem or if the poem is shaping me. Maybe it’s both. I don’t have to figure it out right now.
Drafts are still drafts, full of crossed-out words and little apologies in the margins. But I’m learning to let them be what they are. It’s not about fixing myself or the poem. It’s about sitting with the mess, letting the softness stay, and letting that be enough for today.
I’ll come back tomorrow. I’ll bring more softness. The story will keep shifting, and so will I. That’s the quiet magic of it, I think.