Sometimes it makes me bleed

Somehow I had forgotten the risks associated with sharing. Today I realized that a few of my poems are floating around out there for anyone to see and I panicked a little.

Once upon a time I wrote poetry in secret. I didn't start that way, but when They (my parents, my teachers, my friends) got a hold of some poems They started freaking out. They saw death and destruction and chaos and told me to get over it. They told me that nothing I had experienced was really all that bad. They taught me that in order to purge my mind I had to hide it away. Typing this, I realize that a part of me hates Them with pure white righteousness.

For a very long time, no one read my work and offered me a hug.

I grew up a little and gained better control of my own life and I started to share more often. I remember a time when an awesomely talented friend would sit on my back porch with me, chain smoking, while we read out loud our poetry. Those nights were some kind of literary magic because it was all accepted with such simplicity. I miss those times of sharing. To you, my literary friend, I say "I want to hear some more of your poems. I love your vision."

So, yes, today I panicked a little. I wondered what people are thinking of me when they read this stuff. I wondered how I could possibly keep moving on knowing that someone somewhere out there knows a secret about me. A part of me is absolutely terrified to let go. I'm becoming convinced that part will always live on. I berate all of Them for teaching me to hide myself, to be ashamed.

I used to deliberately cut open my skin and watch the blood well up. To feel something, to touch reality, to know I was more than my broken mind, to calm and soothe my soul. I used to drink quietly, locked in my bedroom, until it was all I could do to climb into bed to sleep.

Panicking about this blog seems ridiculous now. I'm really good at minimalizing everything. It's a learned talent.