honey thighs

 I click and read, recognizing the words, when tears form. The moment is not surprising, I have been holding back the droplets for so long, I forget what I need to cry about. The part that I wasn't expecting was that I am impressed. I didn't anticipate feeling the story, following along with fact and fiction to the best of my ability. That my words actually make sense, even years later. I spent the last few years reading. Maybe I have been gathering up inspiration. Maybe I was plateauing. Maybe I was simmering. I expected to feel unpolished. Unjustified. That the idea of being a writer was far fetched. I had heard that my writing strikes a cord with others, women suffering from past trauma especially, and that it is validating. On some fucked up level, I just figured it was like air. I just do it. I just write. I don't have a plan. I just go. I didn't even have a plan right now. Moments ago, when I started writing, I thought of several songs, several ideas. The posts where I talk about men I have been around has gotten positive reviews, in person. The trauma ones have a cascading effect. Suddenly, they feel heard and seek their own therapies. I wanted to write about my plateau, firstly. I also wanted to indulge in the feeling of sliding my tongue over the top of a smooth erect- actually, I decided I don't want to write about that right now. I haven't had a chance to define that and I am still wondering if exploring that would make me take the left or right fork in the road, so I am going to save that for another time. At its core, I just started writing and this is what came out. No agenda. No foresight. A lot of times, I just shoot for it and the words just flow over my brain which my fingers type out. I can't describe how to do it. How I do it. It just is. Like breathing, the air comes in and goes out and I can focus on the act of breathing, the breath work. I can't tell you why my subconscious breathes when I don't think about it. I also cannot tell you how I write. It flows through me like air. All the ideas float around in a river of thoughts. I pick some of the bigger pieces, I glance at the smaller chunks, I take those too. I just start describing them in a way I would want to sort them. How I want to read them. Later, I re-read them and edit. I choose different words. I say to myself, "you used that word too many times and it wasn't an echo reflection, pick something else..." I make more sentences appear when I realize I have too many run-ons. I make new paragraphs. I cut out whole thoughts. Or move them elsewhere. Somewhere to tie it in. I sort it all out and I feel satisfied. I publish it. I read it again to see if there are any grammar issues. I edit again. I read it again. I edit it again. I hope it's done and then I put it on my social media page. I hope again. I want someone to read it. I want someone to relate, understand, or be entertained. Maybe they read it and are annoyed or angry or outraged. I hope so. I hope someone is mad I am not talking about dicks instead. I want someone who doesn't understand me at all to read it and begin to. I can't seem to make my mouth form the right words. I can't edit and publish when I am ready to, hours later. I get misunderstood. I let it happen. You don't need to know me. You don't need to get me. You can be so mad at me that you read my blog to confirm it. Please do. This is for the public. My mind is on display for the public.

This is why I stopped writing, actually.

I felt on display. Healing leaves me feeling so raw at times that I cannot stand the feeling. I don't want people to know how vulnerable I really am, because then it opens the door for predatory types. I had to shut it off for a long time. I had to just be raw and let it heal. Let the idea that there are people out there who desperately hate me and be okay with that. Allow it to happen. I don't need to convince anyone that I am worthy of anything. I just know I am. But, that took a long time. I don't know how I would feel if I were personally attacked about my writing, but I would like to think that I would be okay. I would accept that they just didn't understand me. And that's okay. I don't always need to be understood. I can just exist and be my own complicated, raw, vulnerable self. Until someone sees that and says, "hey, I really appreciate that you held space for me," which inspires me to open up more and more. Then for them to say, "you know, you should really write a book about that," for me to accept it for the first time. Not an idea that I had for my entire life. But an action item that I have been sitting on all my life. Oh. I do know how to write. I do like how I write. I like authors that write like me. I like all kinds of authors, actually. I am open the idea that maybe I could actually write something that people would enjoy. 

This is why I started writing, actually.