My soul has thick bangs, coke-bottle glasses and a plastic black mustache. It flies under the radar and over the rainbow to give us wallflowers a good name.
I am an observer. I am the last to raise my hand. I hear between the lines.
I cannot ignore this pull to pen and paper, this process that owns me. These jots on scraps that swirl about my head like Pig Pen’s dust cloud.
Word puzzles that show this Quiet Girl that her voice can be bold.
Now is not a convenient time to declare myself a writer. I’ve nearly perfected my disguise.
Still, this is my time to write.