Becoming a writer

My feelings scratch the surface trying to come out of my face, lips and eyes. Out of every crevice I have. They want to touch the piece of paper I am holding, they want to seep into it and fumble into words.I have gotten good at shoving them back in... stuffing them into a tiny box deep down in my soul that is stretching at its seams. People love writers but hate to read our work. Because things are too open, to true, to dark, or simply just to long for them. Become a writer they said, but don't write about the sad shit, don't write about feelings, write about a "she" and make it two sentences long. Always shoving, shoving feelings into boxes. Conform to the "good" writers and write a life that isn't yours. A life that is short and to the point, easily read quickly, and contains some motivational crap on how women should date from the eyes of a man. My box of wound up feelings is getting full and nothing good comes easy. If I wrote like everyone else, what kind of writer would I be? I empty my box, spill these words onto plank pages regardless of who’s reading. I feel free. The day I let what is popular conform my writing is the day my soul will die. Fame isn’t worth murdering my freedom. -M.D.L

Vulnerability

To me you are not the moon, a hurricane, or any other earthly force. You are exactly what you are. You are messy, Wild, carefree and breathtakingly human. You fucked up, gripped onto your pillow for dear life as you cried yourself to sleep over some guy. I watched your hands turn white from your grip as you clenched onto the pillow like it would save you, take you to some other realm. You were beautiful then, in the mess of it all. You were not gracious, not bold you were falling apart at your seams, heartbroken, filled to the brim with feelings. I laugh in the face of people who want to nickname you after bullshit natural forces. You are the most powerful fucking thing there is on this planet. You are human and you are the most beautiful when you show it. -M.D.L

Trauma

Trauma is not knowing if I can accept your love for fear it will leave me. Trauma is not knowing if I can accept your love for fear it will tear me apart from the inside out. Trauma rests inside me, like a rotting disease. Trauma is saying “sorry, I can’t love you, I don’t know how.” Trauma is saying “I’m sorry, I can’t accept your love because I fear it’s not real. “ Trauma is pain disguised as protection of ones self. Trauma rids us of the love we want most.- M.D.L

Sadness and me

Wallowing in gloom, this feeling fills this room. Don’t be sad they all say but they aren’t the ones who have tried to get away. Ive tried several times to escape, the sadness hangs over me like a drape. I’m no contest for sadness so I’ll just sink further into this mattress. I let it consume me, swallow me whole, I just give up all control. It won’t let me be free we have some type of bond, sadness and me. Sadness tells me it’s okay to feel, to let down my guard and be real. I don’t want to feel this way anymore so I try and close the door. The door to this madness, to the overwhelming sadness. The door is always cracked, waiting for how I’ll react. I just wanna leave with happiness in tact. Sadness is something that must be, it’s simply a part of me. Don’t be sad they all say, like it’s something that can just go away. The sadness in me is here to stay.

COVID

I often see several smiles being suppressed under a fabric that connects around the ears of its owner. It has made me realize how much smiles can mean. There are people I have met with just eyes, the rest of their facial expressions a guessing game. Men can no longer tell women to smile more and maybe that’s a win for feminism. I see just half faces. I forgot what teeth look like and often wonder if teeth whitening sales have gone down. It’s like having a secret, I may only ever know your eyes and the way they crinkle around the curved rim of a mask when you laugh or how they dart back and forth when I can’t keep your attention. I’ll tell my children one day, maybe that when I met their father in the good old Walmart we were six feet apart and I saw nothing but his eyes. I knew he was human by the way he stared at me peeping over the wired rimmed cloth, what romance. I see people budging in store lines, not saying please and thank you. I wonder if it’s because we are just eyes, there is no frown to be seen, no disappointment just a furrow of a brow, eyes turned to slits of anger. Some of the eyes have names that I can’t remember because there is no whole picture, no cheekbones, freckles that dance on top of those cheekbones or smile lines to be seen, to prove to me that they have captured joy. There’s a saying I heard once that goes: “you can tell a lot by someone’s eyes”. I wonder if the author of this saying covered up literally half of all the faces of everyone they met to discover this or if they were just disregarding how well someone’s smile can compliment the light in their eyes. Does anyone even bothers to smile in the first place anymore? If no one can see flashes of teeth or lips turned upward why bother? I feel muffled, suppressed and when I remove this thin piece of fabric from my ears, releasing my mouth from its cage it feels a lot like taking off a bra or slipping out of a pair of boots after a long days work. This very fabric, this muzzle if you will, made to protect me has distanced me from the rest of the world as if to say “careful she bites”. The thin piece of fabric is good for hiding my lip singing in the grocery store and keeping my nose from getting frostbite. However it’s a constant reminder of death and the need to be protected in a world that rarely offers none. There’s no smiles here anymore. People are losing their lives and we are gripping our wired fabric like a life preserver. I never thought I would live in a world where we all wear masks in more ways than one.

April

April brings white flurries and brisk morning air. They say “April showers brings May flowers” I often wonder if April snow has its promises of growth too. It seems only frigid, a slap in the face to spring. April and spring being scorned lovers and we just victims of their affair. On and off, on and off again. Small glimpses of sunshine arise only to be squandered by snowfall. This affair is all too much and I find myself pining for the glimpses of sun. April is a cruel mistress to spring oh how I long for the flowers may will bring.