Blog,  Identity,  Memoir

Burning Words

A flame can have trouble taking paper. Not a solitary page, maybe, but pages, dense in unity.


So, do you write longhand, or do you prefer to use your laptop for your writing? 


An angry orange edge. Hungry. Quickly suffocated in smoke. Smoke that can be smelled rooms away. Silent alert that something isn’t right.


A room full of writers. Writers affected by mental illness. Mostly our own. Six women at my table.


Ragged blackened corner. Singed fingers. Words left intact.


The woman to my right: “I have boxes of journals. I always thought I’d do something with them. I came across one last week. I wasn’t ready to go through it.” 


Sitting in the dark. I’d found another notebook, heavy with words. I couldn’t sleep. Page after page. A match was not efficient.


She’s from Philly, as she calls it. As are the others. Except the young one. She’s from New York. The part most people think of when they hear New York. Not the part I’m from.


Cold kitchen floor. Tearing my words apart. Strips and bits of paper into the trash.


The conversation moves on before I say what happened to my journals.


Wipe out every trace I ever was.

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