I've written on apricotpie for five and a half years, and never once have I gone a month without posting. In fact, I don't recall ever cutting it this close. There are six hours left in the last day of the month and the only thing I have to show you is an essay about how I don't have anything to show you.
Sometimes I worry about my future as a writer.

I'm never afraid when I am with you,
nor when I have an audience
I'm always onstage,
the lights in my face,
never out of costume

But only I know about the times
standing alone in a library
looking at endless lists of names
and wondering,
how on earth will I ever be good enough
How on earth will I ever be
the voice, the chartalan of powerful words
of worlds I've never seen?