Punches

Someone asked me today why I am so angry

So I punched them in the nose.

They screeched in anger, clutching their bruised nostrils

Bewildered, they ask,

“The FUCK was that for?!”

I shrug, and go about my day.

Later, I offer them a donut and a coffee

Which they accept.

“So we’re good, right?” They glare at me

And turn their back to me.

“Why are you so angry?”

“You fucking kidding me?” they ask,

Eyes wide with indignation.

I shrug, and go back to work.

I borrowed their sweatshirt.

I was cold, and theyweren’t using it.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

I nod, happy that they noticed my appreciation for their thing.

Even though I am much bigger than them,

I make it fit.

I made it my own.

“How,” they ask. “Did you manage to fit into it?”

“I had to rip it in some places,” I tell them, excited about my new creation.

“Like your hoop earrings and your cornrows, I’m just borrowing it.

I watch as their eyes and nostrils widen

“WHAT THE FUCK IS-”

They start, but I hold up a hand.

“Why are you so angry?”

Their anger seems to grow exponentially.

They leave me,

Trying to understand what I did.

Certainly it can’t be because of this morning?

Still baffled by the person’s hostility

I take to the timeline.

I tell them about how nasty the person was to me

I explain the situation, trying to understand;

“I mean, you punched them in the nose,”

Said one user.

“How you gon punch somebody then ask y dey mad,”

Asked another.

Some attempted to explain

The context of being punched in the face,

And how for a long time,

It was seen as an act of violence

One that could escalate.

Not like saying the N-word

Or believing that all black women are ugly

Or angry.

When I insist that I don’t understand,

They try a different approach.
“What if someone punched you in the nose?

Stole you sweatshirt?

Can you see where that may be a problem?”

As a black femme

I have to take punches every day,

In silence.

I’ve learn to take the hits,

But I can’t quite quell the angry.

Because no sooner have I recovered from the last punch to the nose

That I take a hit to the ribs.

And before I can straighten myself out from that,

I get swiped at the ankles.

Every day, I have to see

Other’s praised for things that only earn my mockery.

Things about my style of dress,

My voice,

The things I love,

Only to have someone snatch it

From my hands,

And claim it as their own.

My personality whitewashed

Made more palatable for the mass.

Erasing me from my own creation for their personal gain.

I’m nothing but a mass of emotional

Mental,

Sometimes physical bruises.

And yet, I should be happy.

Happy that I am even acknowledged.

Others just called me names

Bitch, Cunt, Violent Whore

But none of them understood;

They were just being divisive.

I get that they are upset

I really do.

However,

Every day, I deal with punches.

On a regular bases,

I have piece of my culture

Plastered all over the mainstream,

Without a face like mine profiting from it.

You had a day to handle it.

So again,

I ask,

“Why are you so angry?”

Perfomance anxiety like a mother-

I want to be a writer.

No. An author. I want to be an author.

And in order to do that, I have to actually write. And it's not like I don't have the story mapped out. I have outlines, character descriptions, outfit inspirations, everything. I can talk hours upon hours about plots, battles, relationships, settings all of it. But I've spent the last few days stuck on one particular chapter, barred in my own fear with the same questions:

What if this story actually sucks?

What if the premise isn't good enough?

What if you fail? 

What if I fail? The fear of failure has kept me from doing a lot in life. That and the fear of rejection has kept me stagnant in my mindset, leaving me unable to wade through my own wants, needs and desires. The only reason I rediscovered my love for writing was because I didn't have anyone to talk to, so I bought a notebook and wrote a short story, remembering how cathartic it was for me do displace negative emotions onto a fictional person and have them walk through several scenarios to see a resolution of my problems. That is easy because it isn't going to be seen. I don't have to worry about failure there. But the stories that I want to get published are a completely different beast. I want others to see the worlds that I built. I am cutting open my skull and my heart and letting other people in to see it. But what if no one like it? What if other people don't like the color I paint the walls? What if they reject my story and, ultimately, me? Thoughts like that are what get me the label of emotional and keep me from completing an easy lay up of a novel that is outlined to the point that All I have to do is add dialogue and the book is written. But here I am, letting anxiety drag me into her cold, wet abyss. So, hopefully, within the next few days, I will break through the fear fog and write a few more chapters getting me closer to possibly publishing.