Last night, I wrote a novel
in permanent ink. No eraser.
The night before, I told my story
to harsh critics with hopeful vulnerability.
Their judgment bleached my pages clean.
I wrote again, feeling
words aching on the page,
finding myself again with deliberate abandon.
Days I am busy,
a scattered mother of two,
meeting countless needs
and forgetting to write, too busy to feel.
Nights I am a spinner of tales
weaving words that unravel pretense
like a ball of yarn, weaving reality
on every page with elaborate syntax
of desire and desperation and despair.
(mostly) full disclosure 