I logged into the computer and showed him as much as I possibly could.
As much as language allowed me to. I was limited to Spanish.
I showed him post after post, being careful not to read them,
but to guide his eyes into the words staring back at us on the screen.
He was delighted. I was confused.
I have been writing on and off for years, but have never seen the beauty in my words others claim to see. Maybe it’s because I’ve been writing less in Spanish, maybe it’s because I know I can be better, and until I reach that point I will not consider myself any good. Maybe it’s because I think friends’ judgements are a little bit clouded.. Maybe It’s because I thought they all took it too far when they each told me I should write a book, at 17.
What does it matter anyway?
He was charmed and dazzled by what he’d just read.
He looked at me like I was some kind of undiscovered gem.
I could tell he now looked at me completely different,
even if he has known me for years.
I could tell now he thinks I’m somehow better, even more gorgeous, stimulating, unique…
“You’re an artist in the making,” He said.
I smiled and looked away.
He insisted on me sending him some of my material,
so he could forward it to one of his publisher friends.
I smiled and said I would.
“I want you to write about me,” He told me as he looked into my eyes.
I was not sure what that meant, but I laughed inside.
Doesn’t he understand I write out of inspiration?
I looked away, and said nothing. I started playing with a strand of my hair.
“Not like THAT, you know, as friends,” he said.
I gave him an “as if we’re something else” look.
I just wrote about you.