Sometimes I think my words are more patient than I am. I’ve been sitting with this phrase, words waiting for my realization to catch up, and it keeps circling back to me. Like, what does it mean for something I wrote to know more about me than I do about it? I guess that’s what happened this morning, hunched over my notebook with coffee that was already cold.
I wrote a line I can’t even remember now, but it felt like a little nudge under my ribs. Not dramatic, just a gentle hey, you’re here. My brain was still catching up to the feeling in my chest, the way the page felt soft, almost shy. Sometimes, I think being Black and queer means I’m always waiting for the world to catch up to me, or maybe I’m catching up to myself. Either way, the writing comes out in bits, like it’s got its own quiet timing.
There’s something tender in letting a line just exist, even when I don’t fully get it yet. Old me would have tried to muscle my way into understanding, but lately I’m letting the words hang around, waiting for me to be ready. The page gets messy—crossed-out lines, scribbles in the margin, a doodle of a plant with too many leaves. It’s not elegant, but it’s honest. Queer softness slips in, makes a little nest for those half-formed lines and feelings that don’t want to be rushed.
I’m learning that realization isn’t a finish line. Sometimes it’s just a quiet nod, an okay, I see you, even if I don’t know exactly why yet. The words are waiting, sure, but they’re not impatient. They know I’ll get there, eventually, in my own tender way.