I'm always hesitant to pick up "modern" poetry because a lot of it isn't worth spending the money to read. It's all just a sentence that someone pushed enter on a million times. That's a cool art form, but it's not poetry. This, however, is poetry. Each section had at least a few that made me cry. They are so relatable and beautifully put together. The imagery Dorta uses is intriguing and she doesn't use tired cliches. She doesn't try to sugarcoat or make things flowery, either. There were only a few poems in the whole collection that I felt kind of meh about. The whole book is stylized in all lowercase, which I personally like, but I know some people don't. Overall, some of the best poetry of the recently released that I have read. Rupi Kaur has nothing on Isabella Dorta.
Some of my favorite excerpts:
"i am a toddler removing my own training wheels.
i have fallen
and fallen
and fallen,
but i am getting back up
and i am trying." -p.18
"you learned to love me
for nine months
before we even met
and
i have spent eighteen years
perfecting how to return the favor." -p. 26
"if i choose to love you now
i will have to choose to un-love you later." -p. 51
"i think loving you was both the kindest
and most self-destructive thing i have ever done.
in the same breath,
we built new bridges and burned old ones." -p. 79
"i hope you still think i am pretty
when you see me collapse for the first time.
when you watch me crumble
and disappear
and disappoint you." -p. 82
"we existed together
in the collision
of the confusion
of everyone around us." -p. 103
"maybe i'm collecting them,
the glossy shards of eyes from the boys that have
broken me.
i'll create a mosaic out of you all,
a pretty stained-glass window.
i'll cut myself in the process" -p. 110
"and today i burned you.
every part of you that still gripped onto me,
i pried off.
i finally let you go.
and oh,
you burned well,
all orange and brash,
the very last pieces of you
billowing black smoke in my face." -p. 125
"there is a home in my trauma,
in how my brain cannot process safety.
i miss being traumatized
it is masochistic,
i know,
but it is beautifully home to me." - p. 157
"i am not a poet.
i am not keats, or wilde, or shakespeare, or plath.
i am not living to write.
i am writing to live.
perhaps one day i can write
without the need to be saved." -p. 172