Yesterday I wrote a line that made me laugh out loud, which honestly doesn’t happen much. Usually I’m too busy squinting at the screen, trying to decide if I’m being honest or just clever. But this time, the words slipped out before I could think them into shape. I felt them in my chest before I even registered what I’d typed. It was a strange, fizzy kind of surprise—like catching my own reflection in a window and thinking, oh, that’s me.
The line wasn’t planned. I’d been circling around a feeling—something about softness, about how my queerness slides quietly into everything I write, even when I’m not naming it. I guess I’d been trying to write a poem about a date, but the truth is, it was really about letting myself be seen. When the line showed up, I didn’t know whether to trust it or delete it. It felt too gentle, too much like the inside of my own voice, not dressed up for company. I kept it anyway.
There’s something about writing as a Black, queer person that makes me extra careful, and sometimes a little guarded. But every so often, a sentence sneaks past my usual defenses, and I get this tiny jolt of recognition. Like, oh, that’s actually what I mean. Not the polished version I thought I was reaching for, but the softer, maybe braver one. It’s almost embarrassing, in a sweet way.
I wish I could say I always know what I’m doing, but most days, I’m just following the feeling. Letting the mess be part of it. When a line surprises me, I try to let it sit there, awkward and honest, until I get used to seeing myself in it. That’s when I know I’m getting somewhere real, even if it’s just for me.