Learning

When I wrote a poem for my mom,

it was the Mother’s Day after I had gotten 3rd place in a slam poetry contest.

I realized I never found her a present,

so I sat down at a screen and typed.

My mother passed it around in pride.

My father asked me if I had actually written it myself.

Until that year I kept my words hidden under mattresses and tucked in journals.

I did not believe that they were good enough to share.

I rarely feel good enough.

When I started college,

it was my junior year of high school and the year I fell in love.

I realized I might be a writer.

I took two classes with a teacher

who was the first person to convince me

that this was something I could actually do.

Until that year I filed poetry under hobby and called that a mature decision.

I often mistake cowardice with maturity.

It is hard for me to feel worth listening to.

I delete more poems and stories than I keep

and I tell people to tell me when they want me to shut up,

as if it is inevitable that they will tire of my voice

But I will learn to love my voice

and to trust that what I say is worth saying,

because I am worth more than the times I have felt like my existence was inconvenient.

I will write until I have taught myself that I am good enough.