Dear Writer

My favorite writers were concocted from fire and air 
Woolf, Plath, Didion 
They swayed trees and set me ablaze, a dancing, scorching rocking chair 
They twisted up tornadoes and wildfires, all-consuming and unforgettable 

No escape from the thoughts and feelings, 
Tangled around our throats and blinding our eyes  
 
Dear Virginia, Sylvia, Joan- 
I promise you that I am trying 

As Hannah put it in GIRLS, and 
Only one of you is alive to see this masterpiece- 
I am a voice of a generation

I thank you endlessly 
For helping me to articulate 
What is so confusing about this insufferable life, 

What bittersweetness seeps out from under our 
Shadows? 

I am busy trying to become who I am, as Hannah aptly puts it- 
Without letting the ego take over, a suicide mission! 
 
But writers, writers
Aren’t we the most selfish bunch? 
Can understanding, can clarity, can art bring us to the surface while cradling
Our depths?