Sometimes I look at the pages in my notebook and wonder if anyone else would recognize them as writing. The scribbles, the half-thoughts, the way the ink trails off when my hand gets tired. There’s something honest in that mess, like my brain is whispering secrets to my body and my hand just tries to keep up. Truth Hidden in Scribbles feels about right.
The other night, a line slid into my head while I was making tea. Not a big, dramatic line—just a small one. It felt like something I’d say to a friend after midnight, when the world is quiet and all the armor drops. I scribbled it down before the kettle finished boiling. Later, reading it back, I could feel my own softness in the words, the way I never quite say things straight but always mean them. Sometimes I think my queerness taught me that—how to wrap truth in gentleness, to keep it safe but still visible.
I used to think writing was about finding the perfect way to say something. Now I’m suspicious of “perfect.” It feels better to let the mess show, to let my tenderness leak out around the edges. There’s something kind about it, even when it looks a little ugly on the page. I like seeing where I got lost, where the words doubled back on themselves, where I tried to write brave and ended up writing soft instead.
I keep the scribbles. They remind me that my voice is shaped by all the things I am—Black, queer, trying to be gentle in a world that isn’t always. Maybe the truth is somewhere in the lines that surprised me, hiding out until I’m ready to see it. For now, I’ll keep chasing what feels real, even if it comes out crooked. My notebook understands.