There’s a kind of hush that settles over my desk when I’m writing, especially late at night. I think about all the words that never leave my mouth, the ones that only make it to the page because the room is quiet enough to hear myself think. Sometimes I wonder if the poem is really just the conversation I’m too tender to have out loud.
Last week, in the middle of a draft I didn’t even like, this line just showed up: “I keep my softness tucked behind my teeth.” It wasn’t planned. It didn’t sound like anything I’d written before. Honestly, it felt like a secret slipping out, something my body knew before my brain caught up. I just stared at it for a while, not sure if I wanted to keep it or hide it. It’s funny how writing can feel like that—like the inside part of me is braver on the page than I am in the world.
Being Black and queer, I notice how much of my voice is shaped by the spaces I move through. There’s a carefulness in me, a habit of holding back, but when I write, I get to be soft without asking permission. I get to be messy and gentle at the same time. Sometimes the draft is ugly, sometimes it’s tender, but it’s always honest. That’s the best I can do.
There’s no big revelation here. Just a small shift—a quiet, honest line that made me feel seen by myself for a second. Maybe that’s what I’m really after in these quiet moments: a space where I can show up whole, even if no one else is watching. Tonight, that’s enough.