she felt it lingering

before it exploded

pus that cools

before it opens

before it opens

she unzips her party dress

a fire alarm goes off in the distance

she doesn't need this

she doesn't need this

when she unzips her party dress

the lace burns holes

in her fintertips

in her fingertips

the flames curl

swallowing

her body whole

her body whole

still in the party dress

she is undressed

but the smoke lingers

he said she was bipolar

rode the train until

the conductor told her

to go home

clack clack clack

sparks that erupt

under wheels made of metal

so fierce it cuts her throat

that electricity

that's manic depression

the friction

between two forces

opposing desires

she needs an answer

where is home

the road leads

to nowhere she knows

I've deleted this paragraph four times, let's make it five. Remember when birthdays were fun, happy times? It's a loaded question, how many years I've graced this planet. I've contributed what I can, I'm older than I was then. There are many life lessons to learn, one is how to use the written word. I'll come back to this, I promise, after another decade of remorse, sorrow, discarded drafts and too much bourbon.

I was in my twenties once, living day to day, hoping to survive the decade without succumbing to pain. I hit thirty and realized I'm a third of the way through, if I am lucky. Perhaps it's all happenstance, a roulette of genetics. I take another sip of my drink and watch the condensation drip down the glass, another year in the bag, handed to me with a lemon slice on the edge.

We are all surviving, even if at different tempos. Each year is its own performance, percussion that continues. If the beat goes on, but no one is around to hear it, can you still call it music?

Are you listening to it?

she approaches people at parties

opens her bills immediately

drinks fifty ounces of water a day

not drowning

in her own insufficiencies

she talks a lot about things

that have relevance

to society

politics and philosophy

she knows it all

studies it diligently

she is smarter than average

drinks minimally

not too ambitious

but enough so that her check book

is balanced consistently

she thrives in chaos

her favorite pastime

is not stalking people from college

on the internet

she loves traveling

goes a million different places

internationally

she is kinder

than most people

but most of all

a fantastic writer

In April 2020 my roommate opened our fridge and said, "Do you really only have champagne and eggs in here?" The answer was yes, as I was celebrating the world's end.

I sat down in April 2020 and started writing. Our apartment had a little rickety wooden table that sat two people generously, and I sat there with my laptop and wine at 1PM. I wrote pieces that were clunky, awkward, and sometimes just incoherent. Even at the time I knew they weren't very good. But then I got a "like", and I became addicted to the thrill - I could be the girl who got drunk at noon and cracked eggs, missing the stove entirely, or I could be the girl that people wanted to read more of.

I eventually chose the latter.

Writer's block didn't really hit me during Covid. I turned out dozens of pieces. Looking back, again, they weren't very good. But I wanted to keep trying, to keep getting better.

Nowadays, I hit writer's block frequently. I feel like I've already said everything I have to say. "My trauma" "my self-hatred" blah blah blah blah blah. Nobody wants to hear that anymore. It echos in one ear and comes out the other, readers everywhere scrolling past my sob-story posts. Perhaps, so it goes.

I come back to one instance, and perhaps that inspires me. My ex-boyfriend once called me "the most uninteresting person he knew." That I was "boring" and "had no interests." At the time, I was horribly depressed that he was sleeping with other women, and sank back in my seat, agreeing with everything he was saying.

I don't agree, not anymore.

I don't think writing has made me "interesting" per say, but that moment hit me hard, and I still remember it vividly. When I sit down to write now, I think of his words, and I pour my heart out on the page.

Writer's block be damned. I am interesting dammit. And I have more than champagne and eggs now, I have a plethora of pieces that define me as a writer, person, and human being. I am better for having a voice, and I will continue to share my story.

Dear Alison,

Thank you so much for your submission to _____ Journal/Literary Magazine/Review! We received so many entries this year and unfortunately, only one winner could be selected.

Needless to say (you already knew from reading that intro!) your submission has not been accepted for publication. We appreciate your time and effort and entry, and enormously hope we do not have to read anything resembling your writing in the future! And that includes all writing contests we sponsor!

Thank you, and have a nice day (after waiting to hear back from us for four months!),

_________, Editor/Reader/___ name of journal/literary magazine/review

PS, in case you were wondering who won:

_____ earned their MFA at Harvard University. Or Yale, or Brown! They are published in fifty-two literary journals, twenty-six literary magazines, and twenty times and thirty times in the The New Yorker and The Atlantic, respectively. They are also, somehow, an incredibly talented artist and cartoonist, and their art has appeared in the Guggenheim as well as The New Yorker, where their caption for a recent comic strip earned them a senior position on the editorial board. Don't know what that is? Neither do we! It sounds impressive so keep reading! This writer also appeared in Cosmopolitan, but for their fashion sense, the style of which has gone on to be renamed in their name. Oh, but there's more! This writer went to (insert Ivy League University) for their undergraduate degree, and now resides as a writer-in-residence at that university! Is there more? Yes! This writer is known for their quirky quips, and has been featured in The New York Times Sunday edition!

Alison, you're probably wondering, at this point - how did I not win this writing contest? But really, it's ok! You tried, and that's what matters!

We wish you the best of luck (do we?) on all your future writing endeavors!

Here's another excuse to use an exclamation point!

Yours most sincerely (this time for realz),

The aforementioned editors

What's my shame? I just wrote a paragraph and deleted it. Someone else on this thread, for this challenge, wrote that Prose deleted their first paragraph by accident. Oops - I just did, on purpose.

What's my shame? I am ashamed that my biggest desire is to go to an open mic and read aloud my writing. That I could possibly fathom, in any planetary system, that my writing is on par with other writers, that what I have to say matters.

Here's what happens:

I take that insecurity and put it in a glass jar. My writing is inside that glass jar, and the person I think of as my "writing self" is in there too, unaware that their words are transparent for everyone to see. Because for me, my "writing self", I am talking into a void, potentially a void where someone will see me and understand me, and relate to me, but a VOID. The internet is a void. I write posts about my trauma and don't think anyone is going to know, at the end of the day, what my name is on my driver's license - and be able to link that name back to me, the "writing self" me.

I'm hoping to dear god no one on here knows me personally.

Just like today, at the brewery, when the bartender said he "definitely knows me" from another bar he works at, and I literally could not remember seeing him once, ever. This is my terror: that I will be recognized as the name on my driver's license in a situation where *I actually want my trauma to remain anonymous*.

This, ultimately, is why I don't do open mics: because someone always has a camera, and it's always turned on to video, and I'm going to be somewhere on social media, whining about my trauma, when I had hoped to be remain mysterious, someone who doesn't share my legal name. I don't want to be OUT THERE. When I can be HERE. Anonymous and contained.

So how is this "my shame"? Sometimes I get published and become horrified when it becomes clear that - what? omg - MY name was published alongside what I wrote. Like, no no no. Because like in my real life, where I'm the girl who wears the sweatpants and no makeup to the store, and there, and at the end of the day, I don't want to be recognized as The Girl Who Has Trauma. I'm just here for eggs and milk, thanksverymuchandhaveagooddayma'am. But I do want to be seen as who I "really am" on this writing platform. I do want to be seen as my "writing self." Just don't, like that bartender, say my legal name out loud to me in real life.

Because I will cower, and I will run.

I'm watching Queer Eye right now (anyone, anyone?). I'm watching each of the five men who host the show run around, animated and energetic. I'm watching as these men teach others to live their lives to the fullest, to rely on themselves, but also to rely on others for support. Maybe this show is famous because of this. But maybe, this show just goes to show what it can mean to live life out loud.

On the show, Karamo is the "culture" expert, and talks to the people being "made-over" how to best navigate their lives and issues. I think, looking back, this is what I needed for my younger self. I wish a gay man had knocked down my door and said HELLO WE NEED TO TALK and that it had been him and I could be modest and open the door and let him in to talk about my life. For a long time I struggled to find my place in the world. I think Karamo would have thought, upon meeting me: Good lord, this young woman needs someone who is willing to break down her WALLS, not just her DOOR.

So dramatic! I can see Jonathan running around with his hands raised to both cheeks, screaming. Jonathan is the "grooming" expert. He's also hilarious. I can see him saying, "Oh, girlfriend. But being alive is so fun!!!!"

I needed someone when I was younger. I didn't know it, but I needed someone to teach me how to be a human being.

Tan France is probably my favorite Queer Eye member. He keeps is real. His area of expertise is fashion. In college, I wore sweatpants and a hoodie every singe day. I can see Tan doing a sweep of my wardrobe and saying, "Who's funeral are you hoping to attend?" The answer would be mine, but I would smile demurely, say "no one's." To which he would take a broom handle to reach my topmost hoodie, and lay it on my bed, and take a burner torch to the concept of being "demure."

Antoni is the food and wine expert. In my day to day life, I eat take out and pre-made meals. I can see Antoni opening my fridge, seeing my snacks, a gallon of expired skim milk and string cheeses, and say, "this is just sad." I've never been one to care what I make for myself. Now, I would love to see what he thinks of boxed wine; not that I drink it, but it seems like something that would be truly horrifying for him. And what's better than seeing someone dramatic, horrified? I would raise a glass to that.

Bobby is the "design" expert. I'm not one to be organized or care much about which couch I own, but Bobby does - with gusto. He is dynamic - waving his hands, making jokes. I wish so much that I knew how to do that, to be someone who makes a joke other people really laugh at. Sometimes, I don't know I can be "myself", because - who am I?

Queer Eye is a great show. It's wholesome - sure. But it's also a rare blend of authentic and dramatic. I wish, as a straight girl, I could be that blend. Like Jonathan and his make-up blending techniques, ever the beauty expert, I wish I could find the perfect balance of being fun and upbeat, but also serious and real. The five guys of Queer Eye manage to be honest about their client's lives, while also making the change the client goes through a positive transformative experience - for everyone.

I don't like dogs much. I wasn't raised with them, found them dirty, covered in slob, and loud. They are high maintenance, have too much energy, and are just generally too much.

I know it. You know it, too: dogs are America's sweethearts. Say a single negative thing about them, and it's like saying someone's baby is ugly. You just don't do it, in polite company, and in this case, on the internet.

During the pandemic, I was lonely. Oh no: here it is, the Twist. Yes, I got a dog. He's a corgi, because I am (of course) that basic of a b*tch. And to top off the basicness, I got him at two months old. Because, puppies. Need I say more? Not if you're also an American. I submitted.

Ernest was a terrible puppy: loud, dirty, and requiring massive amounts of training. But here's the thing: I was raised to believe that if someone who depends on you needs something, that person can be labeled Needy and can be told to F Off. It took many months for me to realize: this corgi puppy needs me to be Present for him. In a big way. It's taken almost three years, but I've come to realize (I think - oh no, here it is again, a Twist) that having a puppy is like being an actual mom.

I used to think people who referred to themselves as their dog's "mom" were obnoxious - and here's the thing! I still do. I refer to myself as the dog's "lady." Lady would like for Ernest to go outside. Lady would like Ernest to fetch the toy, etc. etc. Maybe I'm phobic to "motherhood", but actually, raising a dog, for me, has been like a catharsis: I'm a parent now, however I label it or don't label it. I have someone depending on me for everything. And that, initially, was quite terrifying. Especially for someone who was raised to believe that having "needs" (being loud, being dirty, etc.) were the equivalent of using a siren to wake you up at 3 o'clock in the morning. Unnecessary, wasteful, ugly.

Ernest has taught me how to be a mom - totally. I had to learn selflessness. I had to learn that just because Ernest is muddy, and loud, doesn't mean he has a personal vendetta against me. He doesn't want me to be angry. He's just a dog. I think of children in the same vein: they don't mean to make you angry, they're just being kids. Ernest ate my book once, the one I was almost finished with, and I got mad - but here's the thing (again) - it's not his fault. He's a dog. It's a beautiful thing, when you realize you don't have to hate everything that requires effort and time.

I love Ernest (full name: Ernest Hope Hemingway) to the moon and back. I kiss him constantly, give him belly rubs (which he loves), and, I think most importantly for both of us: I laugh at him, and his antics. When he eats the paper towels, I initially feel resentment, sure, but then - I laugh.

It's really fun, actually, being a dog parent. I proudly wear the title of Lady to Ernest. He's chill, and we have fun. It wasn't always like that when he was a puppy, but it is now, and I can also proudly say I've got some parenting experience (?) under my belt.

I stare at my life as if down the barrel of a loaded gun. I'm asked, do you want kids? And I stare blankly at them, picking at the nail cuticle I've been nursing, with it bleeding, for two straight weeks, the longest commitment I've ever made to something on my body. A pregnancy, they ask. Do you want to get pregnant? I go back to my nails, my denial, my entire upbringing, and decide a nail file is too much effort.

My psychiatrist said that I'd have to go off my meds. What, so like, go apeshit? Give up my sanity for something that might not even make me happy? I go to a map of the universe and ask, in what galaxy does that occur in?

I'm in my early thirties. I didn't think I'd make it this far. I had letters written to my close family and friends years ago, the ones I'd send to them when I decided to die. I go on rants. I ask, why on earth would I bring any living thing into this world? For what? So we can all suffer together, quietly, writing suicide notes on our phones? I go back to the map of the universe and ask: point to where it matters, where I'm given permission to pass that suffering on to someone else?

I ask nothing of the universe, except to offer it little prayers. I offer it little prayers in traffic, I offer it little prayers when I see children get shot on the news, which, if you've been watching, is basically every day. I ask myself: is this what I want for a child? And the answer, since the day I wrote my last dying notes on my phone to now, is: no.

This is bleak. This is very, very bleak. I ask myself: if the universe wanted me to bring life into this world, it would let me know. And then my nail cuticle bleeds, and I go back to picking at it, and to the world where I am neither comfortable, nor sad, just here. Drawing blood where they could be life, where there could be something more.