I was eleven years old when I discovered the thing that made me feel most alive. It was poetry. It was reading. It was the digging in and undoing and unfolding of pain, in words. It was confessionalism. It was being honest and real with myself. It was being true to who I was and it was the knowing of love. It was the magic in being alive.
It appears every hard and tough memory that I remember, came at the age of eleven. If you look at pictures of me from my past, at eleven years old, there is no smile. There is never a smile. There is raccoon eyes and darkness. And a belief that happiness was unattainable.Read More