A client sends me a message about the custom poem she ordered. She says she doesn’t want a valentine’s day poem.
Just a self love poem to herself because she’s gone through a lot and made it out in one piece. She raves on about her mother, her father, the past, the present.
Another rose that grew from concrete.
I offered the service, before I got into my feelings. I decided I would sell poems for valentine’s day way prior to the sad coming. Way prior I could barely get my own voice through my throat.
I have my own trauma, I’m always trusted with someone else’s. I don’t know how to deal with all of it most days. All I know is that often, my readers have no idea of how they save me. Of how the fact that they think i’m this eligible to write their feelings pours me right back into myself.
Right here, right now, in my center.
I often forget why I started to write,
I am not sure if I always want to remember
I might not live long, none of the women in my family do. But i’ll be damned if I don’t the trip worthwhile.
