a story and a poem
welcome to stinging sentences. every story has a beginning, middle, and an end. i'm just going to give you the mildly important bits.
the story.
my writing journey began with my parents not really knowing what to do with me. i stood in the softball field with a glove over my face, decorating it with flowers in between innings. i lied and told my mother i had headaches to get out of ballet, and i wasn’t really interested in most things other kids liked. (and were also using to actually develop social skills..hence why i’m a little impaired in that department these days) but i did keep journals. i did doodle in the margins of all of my assignments, and i did love to read. they didn’t put it together then, (because what do you do with a kid who writes??) but i pretty quickly realized that writing helped. helped me process my environment, my ever-changing emotions, and made me feel grounded. to this day, i think poetry saved my life. not just through the rocky times of middle school and horrendously awkward high school years, but as i’m developing into a fully fledged adult.
i was an english major in college and my senior thesis was on poetry. looking back, because it was all about grief in relation to losing a romantic partner, it falls a little flat for me now. but i think that’s how we develop as writers. being able to look back and take what works, and leave behind what doesn’t. college was challenging for me- i missed home, and i somehow felt isolated on the most beautiful campus you’ve ever seen. my saving grace was exclusively the professors who took the time to invest in me, even when i was the biggest pain in the ass. i think i felt angry at myself for not being able to blend in well enough, and that feeling didn’t change after i graduated for some time. fortunately, i kept writing, and two of my poems were published in very tiny anthologies. it felt good to be able to feel for a quarter of what professors tried to tell me again and again- that i have talent. i struggle profusely with the push and pull of wanting to be seen, and wanting to be left alone. like most of us who write, i live with terrible imposter syndrome, which is probably why i’ve been hesitant to put my work out in the world publicly for a long time now.
adjusting to life on my own, post-grad, was really hard. my writing faded away from my everyday life, and i was trying to hold down a job that didn’t interest me and sucked energy out of me. (capitalism, amirite?) i also had a psychotic break in october 2021, which left me embarrassed and drained. long after i finally got deep into therapy and my medication changed, i was diagnosed with PCOS, polycystic ovarian syndrome. I experienced a lot of changing emotions and immense feelings of failure. that being said, my work centers around feeling eviscerated, confused, and working through my relationship with myself and others. i still feel like i’m coming into who i am, but i’m thankful that despite this, the ‘muscle’ of my writing has grown stronger.
i hope that you find something within my art that resonates with you, or at the very least makes you think about what makes you open your heart. i’m all about dark humor, but i think the key to living life well is good people surrounding you, an outlet, and vulnerability.
so, thank you. for showing up for me on this path. i can’t wait to walk it with you. there’s a poem for you below.
xo,
- scm.
the poem.
i smell sterile these days,
medicinal stench underneath my armpits
soaking into my shirt sleeves
not warm anymore, the burning hearth
people made homes by
what would it look like if all those scenarios
i played out in my brain came alive like
creatures of the black lagoon
desperate for you to lick more lime off your lips
at a local bar
i don’t want anything new
but i miss newness,
being shiny instead of muddy
slippery between fingertips
not quite captured, but tasted-
savored.