on being pulled back

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.

.