I Don’t Get It

 

I don’t get it.
Four words.
Harmless alone,
Together, they slice like daggers.

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An uppercut to any writer.
(Or anyone who dares to be one.)

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When I share my work,
those words—the ones I fear most—
haunt me.

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I don’t get it.

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No rebuttal.
No follow-up.
No second chance.

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If I have to explain,
I’ve already failed.

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I don’t get it.
It comes alive
echoing inside me,
drilling through my heart,
coiling in my stomach,
thrashing—waiting.

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It waits, a dragon, its acrid breath
Poised to melt my psyche.

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But, like a sworn legion,
excuses march from my brain,
sidestep my heart,
invade my stomach,
and attack the

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I don’t get it.

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Too strong.
Excuses retreat,
clamber back to my brain,
regroup, resist.

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I should ask.
I don’t want to ask.
A good writer asks...

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What don’t you get?

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Their response might be worse than
"I don’t get it."

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But is anything worse than
I don’t get it?

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Their words ricochet
off the walls of my understanding.

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And maybe
just maybe
I don’t get it either.

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