i hate being a poet
when i tell people i’m a poet,
they think i sit in coffee shops
with a pen and black notebook,
chugging iced coffee and looking at Tumblr.
they think i go to underground jazz houses,
dusty microphones lining the stage
under a hot spotlight,
painfully reading love poems to a crowd that is high.
but i hate being a poet.
not for the misconceptions,
but because they don’t understand
what art can do to the human body:
i choke on my thoughts,
spit words that feel like knives
down my spine,
and call them beautiful.
sticks and stones may break my bones
but words will never hurt me, more like
sticks and stones will only leave bruises,
but words will destroy me.
because of poetry,
i fell asleep in my art —
an infinite ocean of words
that feel worse than a hangover.
but poetry was the only thing
that gave me comfort.
when i got older, i wore scars
like friendship bracelets
because i treasured the thought of being nothing,
but poetry told me i could be something,
anything
so i got addicted.
just when i thought poetry could make me sober,
it only intoxicated me more.
poetry brings me to tears,
makes me scream even more,
poetry, you’re an abusive relationship, and
a shattered stained glass window,
but you’re the gauze around my bleeding head and
the bittersweet air inside my lungs —
you’ll always be there
i know you will be.
