My Pen

Sometimes I think about what I write and what people will think of it. I think about whether they will consider it poetry or ramblings of a would-be writer. I would hope that they would see what my pen creates as works. I consider them works because to me it implies that it is a job, a career, a heavy load that is carried by force and by choice at the same time. Sometimes my works are parcels I carry on my back over rough terrain. When the time comes to put them down, one by one the weight, the pressure, the crippling force of all they hold, for a moment becomes bearable yet leaves me feeling vulnerable and open to attack. I think of my works as a mother does, with warmth in her womb and fear in her heart for the unborn. Every fabric of her being realigned to make way for the uncertain future, coming from a past that begins to fade from memory, all while living in a present that will never be the same. She breaths for it and anticipates the arrival like words floating on the pages of her favorite author’s new book. My works are real. As real as my sciatic nerve pain, C-section scars, and brown skin. They are abuse, love, confusion, understanding, desire, and submission. They are places and people, dreams, and alternate universes. They beat me down when I do not set them free, they speak with me when I cannot bear to be alone. They remind me that everything is not alright but that it can be in time. So, I cannot waste my time. Sometimes I think about what I write because it is my true identity. Hidden in loose pages and on digital screens, I live there. I am the only woman who can handle this work.