I am a shaky doubtful thing with a mind like a megaphone and a knack for saying and feeling the precise wrong thing.
I’ve ran off heroes, friends and enemies. I’ve ignored the most virulent of detractors, always able to make myself disappear. I can only imagine people look at me and say, “Hey, it’s just not worth it.”
I echo them: (Nothing to see here.) Zero eye contact, hands in pockets. A book appears from a bag. “She’s gone,” they think and I am.
It’s a habit. It’s been thirty-two years of “I’m not good enough,” “I don’t feel human,” “Forget I said a thing.” It’s been thirty-two years of hiding and staying hidden and leaning on the shortness of memory when recording unimportant things.
I will tell myself I’m the least important of them all. Soft voice, soothingly.
I will tear a motherfucker down and build it again. I’m shit at maintenance but I can build a thing or two. These hands, fingers like twigs, silent palms with nothing lines, these hands can be mighty.
Nothing to see here. I’m the least important of them all. Soft voice, soothing, soothing.
I will try again. I think. For the love of it. I will cut short this season of self-doubt and demolition because while I’m tearing it down I can’t help but think of the ways I would build it back up again.