The Poet X

It happens all the time.
I should be used to it.
I shouldn’t get so angry
when boys—and sometimes
grown-ass men—
talk to me however they want,
think they can grab themselves
or rub against me
or make all kinds of offers.
But I’m never used to it.
And it always makes my hands shake.
Always makes my throat tight.

The world is almost peaceful
when you stop trying
to understand it

what’s the point of God giving me life
if I can’t live it as my own?
Why does listening to his commandments
mean I need to shut down my own voice?

“You Don’t Have to Do Anything You Don’t Want to Do.”

There is freedom in coming and going

for no other reason than because you can.

There is freedom in choosing to sit and be still

when everything is always telling you to move, move fast.

The ultimate actress because I’m always pretending,

pretending I’m blind, pretending I’m fine;

I should win an Oscar I do it so well.

Maybe, the only thing that has to make sense

about being somebody’s friend

is that you help them be their best self

on any given day. That you give them a home

when they don’t want to be in their own.

Just because your father’s present

doesn’t mean he isn’t absent.

Sometimes it feels

all I’m worth is under my skirt

and not between my ears.

I am the baby fat that settled into D-cups and swinging hips
so that the boys who called me a whale in middle school
now ask me to send them pictures of myself in a thong.