Sometimes I think about the way certain words just refuse to leave me alone. They show up in the shower, or when I’m picking lint off my shirt, or in that quiet hour after midnight when the whole apartment is soft and queer and just mine. Like last week, when I caught myself whispering “tenderness is a muscle” into the fridge light, not even half awake. I didn’t mean for it to be a line. It just slipped out, all stubborn and needy.
There’s something about those moments—the ones that don’t ask permission. I felt it in my chest first, not my head. If I could bottle that feeling, I’d keep it next to my shea butter and favorite pens. It’s a little embarrassing, honestly, to admit how physical it is. Like my Black, queer body is writing the poem before my brain can catch up. There’s a sweetness in that, though. A softness I keep chasing, even when the words show up wrinkled and strange.
I used to think writing was about control, about getting the line right on the first shot. But “tenderness is a muscle” landed crooked in my notebook, and I let it stay. Maybe that’s something queerness teaches me—how to let the mess be part of the beauty. How to trust the words when they insist, even if they’re awkward or half-formed or wearing pajamas at noon.
So I keep scribbling, letting the stubborn words have their say. Most days, the poems are just drafts and the lines are all out of order, but the feeling sticks around. I guess that’s enough. Sometimes, the best part is just letting the words move through me, insisting on being written down, even when I’m not sure what they want yet.