v u l v a l i c i o u s i'm a storyteller, i know when i'm in one 2016-01-08 // 12:08 a.m. i want to be able to tell stories again. how'd i do that? it's at the edge of my memory, just beyond my reach. slippery yet still, so that i know i could almost-just-maybe grab it, but it would move away from me too quick. so i'm looking at it from here, missing that feeling. it's occurred to me that i was never good at it to begin with. that's probably true. not entirely, but close. i'm sure i was never as good as i thought i was. but i used to stand on stage and read things i wrote to small crowds of strangers. i stapled together print outs of poems and mailed them to a long distance lover because i was 23 and reckless and invincible, aware of my talent and amazed by it. willing and ready to share. and now i am 35 and certain that i can't finish anything i start. incapable of writing a poem because i don't want to be that serious about myself (though the truth is i am just quietly serious here in this mostly anonymous corner of the internet). and very much unconvinced of my own talents, abilities, amazingness. i read over what i've written and it's flat. itchy and wrong, an ill-fitting sweater of dull words and bad metaphors. i'm being overly critical, or i'm not. i'm being realistic about my limitations, or else i'm setting them for myself right now, with every (over)thought i have. honestly i don't know the answer. i just know it used to be different. and i still look back at those stupid poems that 23 year old me wrote and remember the things that got me to write them, and i feel the feelings again. that writing works, for me. it hurts like it did, it's filled up with hope and promise like it was. it's still eyes and hands and hearts and using the word cunt too many times because it felt like a weapon and a kiss all at once. and 35 doesn't feel like that. it feels tired and uncertain and i think it deletes too much for fear of saying the wrong thing. it's careful and worried and not so much in love. maybe i've lost the immediacy of it. creating and breathing and the newness of being queer. maybe i'm still hurt and recovering. i'm definitely those last things, even if i don't want to be. but i can still tell a story. i'm just not sure if it's any good. back-forth