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I haven’t written anything for public reading in over a year.
I would be lying if I suggested that this jolting silence was for a good reason. It wasn’t.
The truth is that it’s been a hard year.
I’ve been everywhere within but nowhere without; I’ve changed my mind about things—big things—to the point of misunderstanding myself and my intentions; I’ve doubted everything I’ve ever known, and then what I thought I would learn instead, leaving myself doubled over with questions that I hoped would wring out the dark in me.
They didn’t. And believe me, they tried.
I often found myself wondering if I was a mistake—if my existence was entirely faulted from the start, designed for destruction and disappointment.
I wrote poems to myself drenched in blood red f*ck you’s and I wondered what I ever did to deserve such a cold sentiment.
Maybe it had something to do with the way I couldn’t find my purpose in this world or the way I lacked any sense of direction; maybe it was the embarrassment of failing over and over again, since it didn’t even feel like I tried; maybe I deserved the hatred I stitched into my flesh simply because I felt I had nothing to offer, nothing to give and nothing to show.