Littérature

I’ve been putting it aside for a while now. Other activities demanded my time and I chose to say «no» to it so I could say «yes» to what also matters to me. And I missed it. So much so that I began to question my choices for the future. My love for foreign languages and other cultures is strong but stronger is my need and desire for the written words. Stronger is my need to read and write and share. Meetings with a school counsellor helped to shape the next steps on my path to fit my needs and desires better. The person I am today. The person I wish to be.

I’m not exactly sure who I wish to be, honestly. But I find there are some parts of me that, if denied for too long, scream and shout and I feel myself becoming hollow everytime I tell them «later».

I don’t know who I want to be but I know what’s important to me. Literature and writing are more important than learning new languages. I still have the goal to be fluent in at least 5 different languages before my life reaches its end. Maybe even 7. But learning those can wait. I still have time.

I want to write. I want to read. Poetry. Novels. Biographies. Fiction and non-fiction alike. Uni taught me this. It’s going to teach me more. I chose a bachelor in literature. Both French and English. I’m lucky to have access to such a program here, so I don’t have to choose between two languages that hold my heart in their own ways.

I know I don’t need a degree in literature to be a writer. But I do need one to be a literary director. A translator. Any other jobs that will not only bring food on my table and a roof over my head but that will also bring me joy doing it. Because that job will be so closely related to words, written by me or by others. Probably both. I am a writer because I write and I share my writings. But I’m open to be so much more.

I don’t know what I’ll be. I just know I’ll be happy.

 

Me too

little girl
fingers under her skirt
not her own
she runs away and cries

teenager
caught in their eyes
trapped on their tongues
her body a prison
she begins to loathe

adult
he’s drunk and demanding
trust, he asks
thrusting into her
until she can trust herself no more
she closes her eyes
and prays for it to be over soon

older
she says no
he smirks
pushes harder
challenge accepted

she says no
he balls his fists in anger
and spits at her feet
fucking whore

she says no
he lifts his hands up
looks for his next prey
nobody will ever want you anyway

girl talk
hushed conversations
it happened to them too
relief
not being alone
sadness and pain
not being alone

I cannot finish this poem because we haven’t reached the end of it yet.

Insecurities

It hits me once. Limbs blurred by the tension in my veins. I look at myself in the mirror and like what I see yet fail to imagine how you would too. Halfway there.

It hits me twice. Walking in a haze, feet cold in the morning dew. The past plays its broken record in my mind as I try to piece together everything I know only to find the end of a puzzle and the beginning of another. Unknown territory.

It hits me thrice. Eyes forced open and I won’t fight back. Moving figures in black and white, expecting me to act the way they want. I played my part accordingly and can’t unsee the wrong now that I know what’s right.

Self-awareness punches again. Breathless, I get back up and smile.

Bring me all you’ve got.
I’m ready for it.

 

November blues

The vines hiding my window has lost its last leaf. Just as I become visible to the world, the world becomes invisible to me.

Fall has taken over my body, hugging me to the ground where I lay. The sound of shuffling feet. I curl into myself and wait.