“Maybe you’ll write about me one day.”
“Why the hell would I do that? I only write about things that actually matter,” I replied, hopping into the front seat. If the look on my face could kill, I’m sure you would have flushed yourself down a toilet.
I hid my face so you wouldn’t notice that my heart had dropped into my gut. Psssh. Me, write about you?
Boy. The very first word I wrote was for you. Everything I wrote in my youth led me to you, and every word after has been dedicated to you. You have been a muse your entire life, my beckoning to the universe for creativity, a continuous poem stringing itself together in my mind. Words brought us together and keep me connected to you like the spine of a book.
Things have been different, though. I find myself speechless, wordless. People ask me why I don’t blog as much. It’s because of you. When you left, my art left. When you rejected me, you rejected my craft. When I realized I wasn’t good enough, I gave up on writing, because no one else’s opinion matters. If you don’t read me, who else will? Did I give away my art, or did you take it away?
Words burst out of me just as easily as they escape me. Words are my life, and my words are yours. I find this exasperating and unnecessary. I am useless without words.
“Maybe you’ll write about me one day.” I hear those words in my mind a lot. I hate it, that you didn’t realize how much I cared and that you consider my writing to be such a joke. Write about you, I did. For close to 30 years, I did. For thirty more, I will.