shorthand

I am uncomfortable writing memoir. I'd rather write thinly-veiled fiction, featuring girls who strip naked and jump off of bridges in the night, and mothers who sleep in hammocks outside. I write about what I want. I write about sex sometimes, but it's rare and often scathing. I haven't written about sex since I had sex, although I'd like to and soon will. My writing scares me. It's how I understand myself and the world, and sharing it with others is too much, too much. I never know when I've gone too far, or if I've gone anywhere at all. my writing means nothing that I want it to, because I want it to grow beyond me, to mean something bigger. even then, it will still be me, because I want to grow beyond myself too.

I don't know what writing is. I don't know if my idle thoughts are writing, or if fiction is writing, or if my memoir can be of worth (read: writing). I don't understand why writing is so important to me. is it because my mind is so confused that it only makes sense in words before me? is it because I can't keep it inside. purgatory. purging. is it because I'm meant to do this, to write until I make something I can be proud of, and with this, something that tells me who I am?

tell me, words. tell me. tell me. tell me.

(and I say the last words like teeth against skin in the middle of the night, in the middle of sex, with salt against the lips and a man's hand pulling at your hair. tell me. give me answers.)