There are two distinct but related feelings that I want to share.
I'm at a queer open mic event. • I don't feel like I have anything to say tonight. Something feels off about the night, • I'm not what I'd call a poet anyways, so I just listen • and wish I were one of the beautiful queers whose voices resonate throughout the space.
Despite not planning to say words, • I faintly recall writing a brief passage recently. • Not much more than a story prompt, it was something that struck me one day, • something I thought I needed to jot it down before the words could be forgotten, • something I left unfinished • sort of as a memo to myself to flesh it out later.
Everyone takes a breather, and the mic goes quiet, • so I find that passage and re-read it from my phone. It goes like this:
"I can sense the knives hanging in the air and I don't know whose hands are ready to reach for them."
Holy shit, I feel that, • viscerally, right in my chest, • without even knowing the context of when, where, or why • I wrote it down. • It's that feeling you get when you know someone's out for blood, and they're trying to hide it, but they're really not hiding it. • That's the first feeling that I want to relate.
Toward the end of the night, I realize "I can find out why I wrote this!" Silly me, the notes on my phone are dated. • So I open the passage back up, check its timestamp, and then leaf through months-old reminders in my calendar • until I find the date.
I guess this is the second feeling I wanted to share: it's waves of fear and embarrassment washing over me, as I realize that I felt the urgent need to write down that passage while I was at the same fucking queer open mic that I'm at now, goddamnit.