Uncovering myself sentence by sentence feels less like peeling back layers and more like finding little pockets of air where I can finally breathe. The other night, I was staring at a half-finished line, not even sure if it was a poem or just what my brain was doing with leftover feelings. I kept repeating the words in my head, and something about the rhythm made my chest loosen up. It was like my body recognized the line before my mind did.
There’s this odd comfort in realizing a line can show up out of nowhere, a small guest at the door, and I never know if I’m supposed to invite it in or just nod at it like a neighbor. The line was simple, but it surprised me. It didn’t sound like anyone else. It sounded like me—Black, soft, a little bit tired, still queer and tender. That’s always a little wild, to see myself appear on the page in a way that feels honest and not just performative.
It’s funny, I thought writing would make me feel more certain, but it really just makes me more curious about my own voice. Sometimes the words come out messier than I want, and sometimes I laugh at how dramatic I sound. But there’s a sweetness in the mess, too. I’m learning that softness isn’t something I have to put on—it’s just there, in the way I pause, in the way I reach for gentler language, in the tiny jokes I slip in when things get too heavy.
So, I keep writing. Not to arrive anywhere, but to see what else might surface if I stay open. For now, that feels like enough.