I knew I wanted to be a writer
When my best friend slammed a door in my face
And the first thing I did
Was write a letter to apologize.
The night before I told a girl I liked her
I sent her five long texts explaining
That in life you have to take risks
And that I had something to say to her,
But not now, tomorrow,
Which I spent the entire night figuring out–
Words that never made it into the open.
I handed fifteen dollars over to a man
Who told me he needed to buy a train ticket
For his sister,
Whose name he conveniently left out,
And then stalked me for an hour
Until I gave him the money.
I sat in the back corner of a coffee shop
And beat myself up
Because if I wasn’t such a pushover
I would have done something
Instead of waiting until the tragedy passed
To compose a journal entry as an afterthought.
I don’t think writers are weak,
And I don’t think I am weak,
But am I really alive
When I need to put my life to a script to live it?