Write What You Know

I write it into my story.

I write in what my mother told me to do when I’m sad: go outside.

I write in the advice from my father to put my feelings on the pavement and run.

I write in my reflex to go through past photographs. I study my face and my curves. I look for a self I no longer recognize.

I write in the cadence of my thoughts. The run-on sentences. The harsh stops. The repeats, the repeats, the repeats.

I write in the quiet comfort of a cat in the room or on my lap. How some love is easy and deep.

I write in my cravings for pizza, my cravings to have the staff know your order, my cravings to have serendipitous encounters in a room that smells like garlic.

I write in my bisexuality quietly and then loudly.

I write in the little I know of trauma, the little I know of nightmares, the lot I know about hanging on when the rope is pulling the skin from your hands.

I write in the love I have for my brother and all the ways he showed up for me.

I write in my hometown, the old farmhouse, the long country highway, and the snowglobe of good and bad all shook up.

I write in everything I know about shutting down. And everything I’m learning about waking up.

Or, I’m trying to.

With Love,

Natalie