– ❊ –
Dear Writer’s Block, It’s not you, it’s me. It’s finally me. I’m not saying I didn’t feel safe hiding on your shadow, because I did way more than I should. I believed you. I believed when you said you only wanted the best for me. I can still feel my pencil weighing between my fingers. I can still feel my hands tremble every time I remember the things you used to do. I remember the way you would come to me slowly your footsteps sounded like raindrops dancing on my roof. I remember how you would press your fingers against my throat until no word could find its way out, and whisper that writing was a spark of magic lost long ago like fairy tales and Christmas mornings all pieces of us we leave behind as we grow up. There is no going back now. My words have escaped. Now they’re yelling at the void, whispering to sunflowers and lonely stars I’m no longer running after you every time there’s something I’m afraid to say I’m no longer letting you wrap your arms around me I’ll lock the door, I’ll shut the windows every time I hear you coming with the wind Forget my name. Forget my way home, the way into my skin. Goodbye now I’ve missed me
[Luísa Tibana, Maceió, Autumn 2019]
