I'm not a great writer

             I'm not a great writer; sometimes I don't think I am a good one. I doubt myself a lot because I fear mediocrity the most. Most of the time when I post a poem, it's because I am feeling bold after writing it in 2 minutes. Many poems sit unfinished in my notes app. Ideas sit in my brain and never see the light of day. Sometimes I think the words in my mind are more beautiful than what I present. I stunt myself creatively because this fear consumes me. I realized recently that this is still attached to my ego. Ego and pride will be the death of us all. I am writing this today because I woke up and realized that I need to just do it. I need to just delve into the depths of myself and simply write. I usually have an editor help me (shoutout to Giana!), but today it's just me, my shitty punctuation, and my unprofessional sentence structures. 

            I've been putting off writing that post about my relationship with my mother because I don't even know where to start. This is a running theme in my life. I have an idea, I get overwhelmed, and then abandon it. My indecisiveness is annoying to me the most. I really want to start planning for this show I want to have in February, titled "Mother, forgive me." I even wonder what I am going to do. What poems will I write? What pictures will I share? Will I tell my mother to come? Will people show up for me? Does any of this mean anything? Will I even go through with this? Will I wait till the last minute again and stress myself out? Isn't ADHD a bitch? 

            I've been thinking of other things to write. I never talk about my love life publicly anymore. I talked about the on-and-off again relationship I was in from 2017-2019, and that gave me enough embarrassment to never talk about any flings, relationships, hookups, or situationships since. This caused a rift in some instances, and in others it benefited both parties. This mainly benefited the cheaters and people who still entertained others. It benefited me because I was still a sex worker until the beginning of this year. Should I write about that too? About how I retired from being a sex worker? I am not sure if I'll ever go back, even though it's getting harder and harder to survive. I don't miss it at all except for the extra income it brought in. I don't know. I do think that would be a good read, and I got A LOT to say about it. Back to my love life, I recently went through something so gut-wrenching that I am not quite sure if I am ready to talk about it yet, but I know that it put me through enough hell that I have motivation to make art out of it for maybe a lifetime, or until my mid-30s, or maybe until the end of the year. I experience a rollercoaster of emotions when I make art or just talk about my love life. I make the art/post/tweet > think about posting it > think "Is this too much?" "Does this make me look weak?" > then I eat that shame and never post it. Except for maybe the occasional poem that is pretty obvious. But that's as far as it goes. I know that love shared isn't love wasted, but sometimes it does feel like a total waste of time. Maybe I'm just still angry about what happened to me. Maybe I just don't want to defame someone I once loved. Sometimes I wonder if I've even actually experienced romantic love because it's all been tarnished experiences filled with a lot of lies. Maybe I shouldn't be writing about this right now while I am at work. 

            Yes, I am writing this blog at work. On the clock. My job is the easiest, fakest, simplest job in the world, and I am really lucky to have it. But! I will not ever talk about it more than that. Just know it's slow enough that I get paid really well to do whatever I want. I was telling my roommate the other day how I didn't want to go to work, and then I said, "Oh, boohoo me, I have a full day of TikToks and being on that damn phone!" I used to read a lot a few months ago, but I've had a lot going on in my head that I am too anxious to focus. I only have the attention span at the moment to doomscroll and wallow in my own pity. 

            It's interesting because I am living. I am going through some of the worst and best experiences of my life, and I am still trying to take it all in. A lot of easy and hard-to-swallow pills. I am proud of myself for still being here. For taking it day by day. For being one of the most resilient people I know. I really am my mother's daughter. It means the world to me that she's proud of me the most. 

            There's this poem I am really proud of, but I am unsure of how to finish it. But!!! Once I do, I hope I dare to perform it. I kind of miss performing my poems. I did at the beginning of the year at an open mic event, but my voice was a little shaky, and I had to improvise a line that wasn't great and very obvious. I was happy to go first because every performer after me just got better and better. I would've HATED to follow the girl who went after me. She inspired me. Every poet there did. It motivated me to go home and write better. Be more descriptive. Paint a brighter picture. Write longer poems. Write a poem that isn't just for my Instagram story. 

            Sorry, I don't have a recipe for you this time, but I'd like to share some poems that go nowhere. I don't know how to finish. Maybe that's poetic in itself. 

I dug myself a hole 

Perfectly shaped for my body 

Where the earth would resurface 

At the tip of my nose

I formed a pile of all the soil at arm's length 

I scooped up handfuls

Each handful would represent a mistake I made 

A moment of accountability 

Or a moment where I stayed silent 

I spread the handfuls out evenly 

Ensuring it coated my entire body

__________

I’ll be a past memory if it’s necessary 

__________

Quite literally biting my tongue,

Sandwiching it between my clenched teeth,

To keep myself from telling the truth,

Or even an attempt to bite it off,

__________

Your loyalty wasn’t out of devotion,

It was a task to prove to yourself that you’re a good man,

A love solely for utility, 

Tallying up my worth by how many acts of service I can provide,

It crosses my mind if the love is genuine by the constant affection.

Or if you just like how it feels to be touched,

__________

I wish all my art was undeniably beautiful 

Not mediocre

Or just good enough 

Not full of trauma and anguish 

__________

I was numb for 42 nights and 41 days,

Not a single emotion escaped me, 

By day 24 I mistook this for healing,

And by night 39 I was reminded of the 1st night,

And day 41 brought the flood,

One greater than 2348 BC,

The memories poured into me so rapidly,

__________

There was no honeymoon phase

The pain started immediately

And it felt so familiar to me that I stayed 

__________