in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.
i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion
pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out
in the dimly lit privacy of my desk in the corner, alone.
i stopped trying to speak, out loud. silent, but the words
burning in my mind were nourished by streaming
from my pen like there was no tomorrow. all my dreams
tucked in a notebook. my notebook knew me better
than i knew myself. i prayed to it, can summer come sooner
whisk me away to martha's vineyard, adorn me
in a bikini and jean shorts and a baseball cap,
and a crocheted white cover up from my grandmother,
make me smile again. make the sun itself tan my skin and brighten
my braids. i prayed, take this bitter, this unrelenting pain
away from me before i take myself away from it. i was
so close to doing just that. my ritual, my poetry each night
gave me something to live for, private and personal
though it may have been. it gave me purpose. now,
the dark and cold months are over. but i still write
like my own religion. however, given that i made it out
of winter alive, i think i'm done keeping my soul
under wraps. my voice flows from my pen so easily,
but this summer i will learn to let it flow from my lips.
Comments
WOW!!! Elise, as someone who has read so many of your poems over the last year, this took me back in the best way possible. The vocabulary in this piece is lovely and fits perfectly with what you are describing. Writing is particularly ritualistic and religious, and how you speak about it is elegant and honest. The last line is truly the most powerful aspect, and I can appreciate it as someone who also isolates during the winter months. I am so proud of how far you have come, as should you!
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