A muscular fist punches a hole through my chest.
Why so scared? Why so scared?
Why do you always want to be missed out, skipped over, anonymous?
Why make choices that no one will ever see, comment on or know?
Here I am still trying to break my arm in The Door rather than speak.
I slam myself shut. I do not let the world see the words.
I hide behind people who’s mouths work better than mine.
They click smartly into place and they use other’s backs as a staircase to climb and shine, shine, shine.
I stay at the bottom in the dark. My choice.
I comfort myself with Billy Liar dreams. If I had been the person I was meant to be, I would bring you bright kaleidoscopic fragments and phrases bursting and beautiful the brilliance slipping through your mind and hands. If I had. If I had.
The cowardly bravery of Ifihad.
But I am caught, crushed, destroyed. Made it into something less. No dangerous quicksilver here.
Safe.
Hiding in here with my child.
Time has moved on. It is no friend to me.
I know I will no longer frighten the world.
But I can protect the little girl. Look after her.
Make her laugh and sing and play and write her stories and poems again.
Behind The Door where we are safe. I can protect her.
I will try not to ignore her. I will not let her try to break her arm in secret because she is so afraid of what she can do.
I will take her away from The Door and hold her unbroken arm and she will get on that stage and I will applaud.
I don’t want to hurt her anymore. I want to make it alright.
My beautiful, bright, perfect child.
Stay safe with me.
I’ve been writing for others for over 35 years.
Using my brain to translate what someone is thinking.
Into what someone else may be thinking.
Making them read something that sells them something.
Something they didn’t know they wanted. Or needed.
Fribblesplot. Magradoodle. Botty Chelly.
Sometimes I think it doesn’t matter what I write.
It’s a silly way to earn a living. It was never the write life for me.
the crone 
Your words remind me of things my closest friends have told me, about lifelong criticism they’ve received for being Too Much—too loud, too vibrant, too clever, too weird, too enthusiastic—when all they were being was themselves in a world that didn’t welcome reminders of its contentment with the uniform gray of “quiet desperation.”
Thank you for letting these words out into the open. Do I detect change in the offing? May The Door spring wide and be left far, far behind.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you my friend. You are so intuitive. I do feel closer to letting The Door swing open and finally setting myself free from the fear of criticism. After all, this life, these words, are for me.
LikeLiked by 1 person