A letter to my writer’s block

–  ❊ –

Dear Writer’s Block,

It’s not you, it’s me.
It’s finally me.
I’m not saying I didn’t feel safe hiding on your shadow,
because I did way more than I should. 

I believed you. 
I believed when you said you only wanted the best for me. 
I can still feel my pencil weighing between my fingers. 
I can still feel my hands tremble 
every time I remember the things you used to do. 

I remember the way you would come to me 
slowly
your footsteps sounded like raindrops 
dancing on my roof. 
I remember how you would press your fingers against my throat 
until no word could find its way out,
and whisper that writing was a spark of magic lost long ago 
like fairy tales 
and Christmas mornings
all pieces of us we leave behind as we grow up.

There is no going back now.
My words have escaped. 
Now they’re yelling at the void, 
whispering 
to sunflowers and lonely stars 

I’m no longer running after you every time there’s something I’m afraid to say
I’m no longer letting you wrap your arms around me

I’ll lock the door, 
I’ll shut the windows 
every time I hear you coming with the wind 

Forget my name. 
Forget my way home, 
the way into my skin. 
Goodbye now 
I’ve missed me

[Luísa Tibana, Maceió, Autumn 2019]

IMG_3134
Ville de Québec, 2017

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