My motivation to write is my family. I write for our future for healing from our past. I write for our dreams and aspirations. I want the best for us. I want for us to grow together and to always share a table. Every word I hope, adds to our growth in spirit and in wisdom.
I love my life and accept that most days I’m not going to check everything off the list and that is ok.
There are many times I give away my time to write. I give it and give it and give till I’m writing 10 words and starving for solitude. I know I should hang on tighter to my time to write. I should be more demanding but it’s such a slippery thing. It shifts and molds in countless ways. I grip, then I give my last five minutes and I’m left grasping at nothing. I slip away because writing isn’t something that can come or go. I, the writer am coming and going. Writing does not cry without me, I cry without it. I ache and spiral and shift when I’ve strayed too far, but it is always as I left it, blank, unfinished, or completed. But when I return I won’t be exactly the same as I was when I left.
-Saschia On Writing
The cafe had steady business. It just got all new furniture dark wooden tables and chairs. Every seat was taken besides a few that were in the middle of it all. Coffee scent stained my sweater and the scarf I wore in but realized it was too warm. I tossed it beside my leg on the bench. When ordering I wanted to try something new but the pressure was too great so I ordered the usual hot chai tea latte. While I waited for my drink I read the headlines on the newspapers stacked not so neatly on the rack. Nothing was interesting enough to make me want to open one of them.
He smiled then pressed his lips against hers and in that moment she knew she’d be stuck trying to understand the weight of his kiss for years to come.
She’s in the mirror while sunlight pokes her in the face she feels as each oblong word beats it’s way out
I am worthy
I AM worthy
I am worthy
I am WORTHY
She crawls under her large comforter, blinds drawn. Her small mouth crackles with spit as she opens it to whisper:
i am worthy
I wake up chug a cup of water in my reusable Starbuck’s cup
gotta make sure I have enough milk made for the baby
sniff my pits and decide they smell fresh enough to skip a shower
I put on white leggings and look at my butt in the mirror only to notice
my panties show right through
So I pick a long short from my floral lined basket of folded shirts
I folded them when I was in the mood
I make myself sausage eggs and two pieces of french toast
this time for myself
not for the milk maker
I yell and scream about women’s rights then walk away
to fill another bottle of water
I pump for 20 minutes
put ointment on to prevent getting thrush
or from getting some infection I’d get from open wounds
and then gather Plath, Bukowski, Poe, Rimbaud, and [S.K.] Nicholas
into my bag
I grab my computer pretend to be happy
grab some pens and my keys and head out the door
I could take the Subie but I choose to take the Matrix
which is older and and smellier
so my husband who had the baby had a car seat
and I drive and I think about where I want to eat
and if I even want to eat again
Sitting here outside the gym eating Milanos. I might finish the bag before I finish this piece. It’s the double dark chocolate flavor. There’s a lesson to be learned here. But I’m sure I already know it. The class starts in ten. There’s two cookies left and I should stop eating them but I probably won’t. I should take this all more seriously I mean my health is a priority as a mother. Ok I’ll leave the last two for tomorrow.
A hungry breastfeeding mother
Snuggles are of most value to me in intense bite sizes. Just tight enough a hold to release my breath and only long enough to keep me missing you.
A soft glow of light just outside my window hums a tune that takes me away for a moment. Under my down comforter I sip from a glass that doesn’t quench and air out all my thoughts that lack depth