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On Being Pulled Back to the Page

I’m not sure why it happens this way— the tug, the nudge, the quiet little well, go on then that shows up when I’m trying to do anything else.

Maybe you know that feeling too: the poem clearing its throat in the next room, waiting for me to stop pretending I don’t hear it.

And honestly, I’ve tried ignoring it. I’ve tried saying not now, or I’m tired, or let someone else write you today.

But that never works. It only sits heavier.

So here I am again, pen in hand, wondering if this is discipline or surrender or just the strange duty of being the one the words keep choosing.

I tell myself I could refuse— that nothing terrible would happen— but even as I say it, I know it isn’t true.

Something in me off kilter, slightly off its hinge.

So I write.

Not because I’m wise, or ready, or even particularly inspired, but because the moment arrived and looked at me as if I were the only door it knew how to knock on.

And who am I to leave it standing outside.

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