This write is from a Write Whole group last summer — this was an introductory write, designed to get our pens moving and our hands loosened up. The prompt was “Why I write,” and this is what came for me in those 8 minutes. This one took a turn midway through that surprised me, but that’s not at all uncommon during these writes:
I write to put teeth back in it — teeth and knives and nails. I write to find the shape of my fist, the smile of my backhand, I write to find a shape for the violence that has no outlet anywhere else, for the violence that contours throat and belly, for the violence that crafted the trajectory of my whole adulthood. I write to find a container for the rage, trace the edge of the blade.
This is supposed to be gentle and kind. This is supposed to be pacifist and non-violent. The editors and censors and worriers jump in quick — justify yourself, they say. Clean up that mess you’re about to make.
I write because I’m not supposed to tell his stories — or, later, his. Because I carry the bilge of a broken marriage still burnt and straining in my muscles, the years of someone else’s terror released as control and — what do I say — shame into my body, my love, still slick down all my tender insides, still shaping every new voice I hear. [redacted] What I really want to say is I still don’t have all the words for those years of loss, nor access to what joy I believe was true between us. The rage doesn’t end just because I moved out of his bedroom — in fact, it wasn’t until I left that those true flames of sorrow and loss were truly allowed to blossom.
