In My Mind

All I do is write, while I croon to myself softly. My pages a sheet in a bed made of thickets and stone.

How does one become successful? Relatable storytelling? Putting a spinny hat on my pen cap?

I do not like what is acceptable. I do not write romance for cookie cutter families. I can write scripts with the best of them, given the chance: I could write anything.

Give me two words— I swear it, I could make any idea come to life."I'll do it for free!" I shout at every publishing house like my mouth is a turret upon piles of scrapped cover letters and half-hearted portfolios.

I see those without much to tell besides about anatomy of two bodies slapping together in a garbled up piece of fiction id write at twelve with a book deal or two. I see those with millions made passively as they craft artwork in their multimillion dollar homes because they were born to the right people with the right agency.

But alone? I am the daughter of an immigrant. My words lift the women that love women and that is not enough. I give my fingertips to the cages of those starved and bereaved and still, it is not enough. It is appreciated, but it is not gold worthy.

It does not received awards. It does not receive the love the work I could force through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth could. How do I become a writer, when I write what is not in high demand and which won't be seen? Where does one send their writing, where it will have a punctured throat enough to breathe?

Am I to exist in my mind forever?