gone gone gone
as usual, as soon as i gather my dregs and submit and start getting rejections (and four acceptances! a banner round), the words just dry. the. fuck. up.
i am still here, i am not gone
but i am silent, for now i suppose.
i tanked an open mic, which was pretty lovely. this might have something to do with hesitation (which just auto-corrected to gestation, which i like much better).
see my entire life i’ve always succumbed to the nagging feeling that i’m just not good enough
that every writer i meet is looking at me with pity
(this is how i felt about being in grad school, with my advisors, with my friends, with my peers)
because i’m just not really all that worthwhile in terms of my words
(or as a person)
and i’m sad
i’m that embarrassing woman clutching her words with either a half-smirk or high blush of self-knowledge
wasting your time at the open mic
slurring through two rough poems
to make two minutes
of what turns out to be painful gibberish