Here Is To Speaking My Novels

March 27, 2017



This is quite literally how I like to sit on my couch. 

Feet in the air, hair strung every which way, and words upon words tumble through my brain. 

An endless library has placed itself where my mind is. 

Pages and pages of incoherent scribbles.

Words of hope and love seep so deeply. 

I cover up the scribbles with neat penmanship. 

Where my hurt is, I dash it with a "t".

 Where my troubles lie, I dot it with an "i". 

My novels are all fiction. 

I cover up my feelings with beautiful calligraphy and mesmerizing metaphors. 

I speak in poem instead of truth.

 I dog-ear the pages but never go back to them in fear that they will become the front cover. 

Here is to speaking honestly, committing to unlocking the vault, losing pride and gaining transparency. 

Bold prints. Italicized ache. My heart longs for more than crazy fonts that serve as a distraction of the reality. 

Loosening the binding that tightly wraps itself around me. 

Here is to speaking the novels that I keep to myself. 

Here is to letting myself be an open book -- the kind that's pages bleed passion, a fierce love, and tender transparency. 

Here is to being the tiny doodles on each corner -- dancing freely, living boldly.

- m.c.

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