The night was cold, I held the tea close to my body hoping the warmth would seep through. He looked at me as we walked, “you’re a good writer. You put your raw emotions in.”
The compliment took me by surprise. Never knowing whether my words were making an impact, I let them disappear into myself. I only tried again when I met a boy and allowed him to be my muse. I only tried when my sadness took over, 24 hours felt like an eternity, and I just wanted to curl up in a ball. I needed to feel human again and I found my inspiration in lonely nights and soaked pillows.
My recent essays from a professor said I was unclear. Grammar and spelling were never strong subjects for me. The red marks were just another part of me, blood dripping on the pages. My self esteem was hit.
I always said I’m not a writer. I just enjoy writing.
His admiration for my raw feelings brought me back to a place I had forgotten. Whatever you read, it’s from a part of my heart.
Maybe I am a writer.