This is my space

This, my space
Is not the only place I can write

I can write on the back of receipts while I wait at a red light
On the back of pay stubs after rummaging through my purse
On my yellow and white memo pads as I pretend to take the minutes of boring meetings
In the last pages of those hard bound notebooks I left blank three years ago

I can write on flimsy grey notebooks
With a blue pen dragged on lineless paper
Cursive endings joining beginnings
I could
And I do
And I would more often
If it didn’t bother me to hide them in drawers

So I write here
This is my space
To let the words that press my mind
Escape at the time of their choosing because they must
And they need to become
A tangible thing I can feel more because I’ve made real that ghost of a feeling that flowed through me without understanding

And then suddenly it’s clear
I’ve worded some sort of internal complexity at the spur of the moment
Or after at least seven unedited drafts that pour from me
I don’t intend for others to understand
Anyone can make their own meaning if they choose to try

But only I know their truth
The meaning behind the words that I chose
I’m the one that set them free after all
Because they don’t belong on scraps of paper soon to be thrown away
They belong here
This is my space

.

.

© Sara Febles

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