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.