i am me.

In third grade, we were made to write acrostic poems set to our names,

Assigning adjectives such as “creative” to the letters,

Relaying generic phrases like “L- loves reading”.

We wrote “I Am” poems in education’s attempt to garner self-reflection,

“I am a daughter, a sister, a friend.”

I am me.

I always hated poetry, mislead by the anguish of a nine-year-old sitting at a table

Reflecting on my youth while trapped under the command

To notice when I inhaled or exhaled

And wondering how my shallow breaths could be written in convoluted metaphors

To impress my third-grade teacher

By trying to explain the origin of feeling.

I was a child of possibility, of adventure,

Of laying on grass patches in a barren backyard, unconfined by reality

With no attempt to analyze the deep structures of my personality,

Imagining space and time on my own,

Without the pause of reflection,of judging myself

through writing.

In high school, I vanished.

Devoured by sweatshirts, sucked in as the black hole swirling in my brain

Made me fearful to talk, to look past the dust layers settled between me and

All the other desks in the class,

Bottled in silence, getting by, imploding alone.

I collected those years in journals, verses and verses of my history,

Days of invisibility preserved in tangibility.

The me never seen,

Exploding in newfound creativity,

A soul being awakened by discovery,

Speaking with something to say

Through feeling

Through feeling

Finally feeling

A new me.