QWERTY
I learned to type without staring at the keyboard because I needed to type in a way fast enough to catch up to my brain. Write with pens, write on paper. Doesn’t work for me. Doesn’t. Doesn’t. Another word to add to the trunk at the end of the bed full of things to do and things to talk about or not talk about. I’ve always been queen of repression, of repetition and of listening to music in languages I don’t understand.
Typing is my writing, typing is my temple and Mavis Beacon is queen. Do you remember that computer program? I don’t. All I remember is the symphony your fingers dance to. Let them eat cake translated to let her write and sing and do whatever the fuck she wants because she’s an adult and not a child. My mother dolling out advice that she’d never listen to herself.
Repetition is a melody on my teeth and my tongue. My brain tells me to stop writing because all of my poems sound the same but I am in my Emily Dickinson shit and it ain’t no mater if no one reads my writing but me, hidden in the internet until someone discovers it, hidden by electric jungle overgrown and restless, like me.