No matter how much I want to, there are some things I can never write about.
Some emotions are too raw. Too deep to be exposed.
Some people are too sensitive. Too close to be confronted.
Some issues are too divisive. Too tainted to be mixed.
So, I remain silent. For fear of being misunderstood, of being categorized, of being labeled – the angry black woman, the lonely single girl at the dinner party, the bitter fat one with a chip on her shoulder. I find other ways to medicate. To placate. To escape. To pack, stuff, press, bottle, and retreat inward, safe-ward.
Usually, this works.
Usually, I can take a deep breath and float above the surface.
Usually, I can ride the current without any noticeable damage.
But, every once in a while there is something that threatens to suffocate me. Something that is so much greater than my will. Something that rises and swells and crushes me under its weight. Pulls me to its depth. Brings me to my end. And the only way to breathe, is to write.
No matter how much I want to.
No matter how much I need to.
There are some things I can never write about.
And I feel foolish. And I feel selfish. And I am upset that of all the THINGS that should elicit a reaction, of all the storms I’ve weathered, this insignificant wave should be the one to drown my heart. And I feel weak. And I feel petty. And I am undone by the color blue and grey.