I am piano keys and the bellows of an accordion. I am the folds down the center of pieces of paper. I am pressed flowers.
I am bookcases stacked to the ceiling. I am clunking cans tied to the back of a horse carriage of newlyweds. I’m the banging symbols between a monkey’s hands and the holy trumpets played in biblical history books. The real historical biblical stories. The bible of God’s love. Not this self hatred, white God’s unlove. I am the rain on top of our tin roof on this cold night when I see my breath and count each rain drop. The night when the only warmth is our arms around each other until morning. I am the shatter in a broken window. I am words and I am literature. I am the rock dust bed resting beneath our feet inside of the abandoned warehouse where we used to drink 40’s as kids….and I, the blood on Giovanna’s knuckles when she punched that window that made the wholeness no longer whole but rather shattered. I am the lick that seals the envelope and the words of the unsent love letter.
I have no choice but to write and sometimes I don’t find any fucking solace in this. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it other than do it. An author, a poet a novel, a certification, degrees, a memoir, a story, an honors student, a community college dropout, a published writer, or a facebook post-I couldn’t tell you what will suffice as the truest satisfaction of what feels like me as art. What will be the moment that will denote me having made it as a writer? Other than the moment I call myself a creative. An artist. A writer. When I finally said “I am a creative” is the moment when I had arrived. Since then, it hasn’t been for anyone else but me.