My first poetry book.
A pink composition notebook
with my signature on the front,
and the words, "This book is for my feelings,"
ending with exactly five exclamation points,
written inside the cover.

I gave each poem my heart,
my curiosity,
and my name.
My hand was a mother in constant labor.
I gave these pages my pieces
with letters that leaned limply,

as if being dragged across the lines. They spelled

a Rage that "burned like the brightest stars,"
a Fear of fates unwittingly chosen,
an Animosity towards human mortality.
I'd snatched them all from the ether and
implored them to be rationalized

in order to put a leash on chaos and crises.

My first poetry book,
a tired stack of lines
named after Me,
was a Hope in a box

bound tighter than the skin on my body.