I wonder what you’ll think of it.
Or if you’ll even read it.
When I wrote my story I didn’t
expect it to be read by thousands
didn’t expect it to end up in
bookstores and in the hands of
people who may know me.
I’m sorry.
I wrote it a long
time ago, and in other ways
only days ago–but these things
take time.
Of course it’s fiction.
It also isn’t.
Both truths equally true as
anyone who knows me
or you
will know.
But at the same time, no one
will fully grasp the truth of it
no one but you and I
and perhaps not even that.
I wanted to use a pseudonym.
Wanted to hide behind the
truth of me like it was
something to be ashamed of
when in reality I was just
afraid
that everyone wouldn’t understand
as they often tend to do.
But here’s the truth.
When someone picks up my book.
They won’t see me.
They won’t see you.
They’ll see the swirling magic of
story as it hits something, an echo
resonating deep inside–
they’ll see themselves
their own fierce loves and desperate
losses.
They won’t be alone
as I was.
And as you and I fade into their
background
just know–
I wrote it for myself.
But I’ll always remember you.