Why I Write On Days I Don’t Feel Like Writing


Because I didn’t know why I was so mad that night until my fingers hit the keyboard the next morning and the words crawled through my fingertips. Because the ring she buried in the palm of my hand was three-years heavy. Because I almost got married and need to know how. Because saying, “I’m sorry,” out loud sounded cheap. Because seventh grade was awkward for us all. Because I want to know which stories are important. Because my mind would get too cluttered otherwise. Because it makes me a more honest person.

Because they said if I shared my story I’d lose my job. Because I had to share it anyway. Because he called in December to tell me gay people don’t belong. Because that’s called injustice. Because I was afraid of myself for so many years and I’m not anymore and that matters a hell of a lot. Because he wrote me a letter promising he wouldn’t kill himself after he read that one I wrote about the way my dad hugged me when I told him everything. Because it really is normal. Because more dads should be hugging their sons.

Because no one should have to walk through life without good, loving friends. Because a lot of people do. Because I know what it means to feel so lonely you want to vomit. Because some days it’s all I have. Because it keeps me hopeful. Because it makes my parents proud. Because it makes me proud. Because Dean thinks I’m good at it, and I have the email to prove it. Because I never thought I could, and neither did she. Because Taylor told me to, and I promised I would.

Because it takes practice. Because I can’t help it. Because it teaches me that failure is necessary. Because it makes me feel brave. Because it’s worth waiting for the right metaphor. Because, “metaphor,” really means, “person.” Because I don’t ever want to forget how his kiss crept over my skin in the car that day. Because when we jumped in the river, the water snuck into our hair and made us shiver. Because time can only smell like buttermilk biscuits on paper, and my arms aren’t actually fifteen-years long, and it’s weird to tell people over coffee that the color green feels like home. Because, like most worthwhile things, it’s difficult.

Because some words are too thick for air.

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