Poetry
a poem
You got annoyed with the way
I read poetry. Slow. Many
breaks. To you — too emotional.
You asked me to read Persimmons
differently, as a character, not
my own voice. A way to
entertain you.
Amerie never called. You
told me to stop writing and
learn something. People only
respect others for what they
know. I said people can respect
me for how I make them feel,
too. Another volcano
in the room. Broken doorknobs.
You asked me to not share
my words or deep memories
of my Pop. They made you feel
uncomfortable. Overthinking mind
replays all the ways
I was never enough for you.
I overheard Marí yelling at you
on the phone. Something about
me and you and repression.
The next morning, she picked me up
in her van, sat on the suitcase
while I tried to zip it up.
I was sad.
Not for leaving you,
but for leaving
She Felt Like Nothing
on the bed.
It’s okay to lose a book,
a friend, a lover. Not okay
to lose myself.
Maybe, he’ll read it. At least
I left him with poetry.
