my pencil kissed my paper

in quiet determination, as my teacher spoke out-

asking,

"what is poetry?"

A mind like mine mulls over

things like this;

breathing them in only to

spit them out.

what is poetry?

& i could only think that:

poetry isn't

my dead mother's hand crushed under the weight of

mine.

it isn't

her saltwater eyes that i see in the

mirror.

it isn't the life she could have led without

cigarettes or

drugs or cancer.

poetry isn't

my best friend's bones--

pale white and aching,

creaking under her skin as she

denies herself one more meal,

whispering,

"maybe this is

beautiful.

maybe i want to

hurt."

poetry isn't

the razors i've let in

(and thrown out)

(and brought back)

and bargained with-

pleading

"don't make me bleed.

i don't want to shatter."

but my ribcage can't handle the pressure.

my ventricles can't handle the chemistry.

poetry isn't

my brusied knuckles

and brusied thighs;

they are empty cliches but they hurt

all the same.

poetry isn't 

my father who hides pill bottles still;

whether they are hidden from

him or from me,

i am still not sure.

poetry isn't

the hollow weight of promise as you give

everything

to someone who promised you the universe.

but the only stars i got were the ones in my eyes.

but poetry is

clenching your fists under a damp pillow and

praying to some god that there are people

listening.

whispering into the night,

"please.

let there be someone listening."

poetry is

letting your heartache rhyme,

or exist in

metaphors / 

similes.

it is mostly  letting your heartache bleed out

into the shape of a question mark.

it is your future.

it is your past.

poetry is the button i keep at the bottom of my

drawer.

the one i found in the sea

when my head was underwater and i was

screaming for

help.

it is small and it is

dainty.

and it is

me.

a poet.

i like the sound of that.