The Novel I am Writing

I am writing a novel.

I haven’t written a single word,

But it has begun.

I’ve swallowed it;

I need to push it out.

It’s going to come out distorted,

But it has to come out

Or I’ll choke.

.

Tonight is strange

There’s that vague pain again

Clutching my chest with bony fingers

I feel tonight has infinite possibilities

But here, in my room,

Infinity is, yet again, too far away.

.

I erase the pain of the unwritten novel

And the night that quietly beckons me outside

By promising myself another night like this

Though you know, as much as I do,

How rare nights of infinite possibilities are.

.

Yet I sit in, coward I am,

Drenched in a sense of unworthiness

No amount of smiles can erase.

I lay bare tonight, and I’d rather not see

What I look like.

.

The novel mostly will never get written

And its pages will choke me

As my body folds in slowly

And crumbles, the delicate pages

Crying out through my wrinkling skin.

.

When I die, will I be remembered

As a person who loved words

But feared rejection so much

She never touched her beloved?

That is the saddest epitaph.

 

 

 

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