The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

Sometimes I want to tell her, the only person in this house who isn’t heard is me.

Gave me this gift of battle and now curses how well I live up to it.

My parents probably wanted a girl who would sit in the pews wearing pretty florals and a soft smile. They got combat boots and a mouth silent until it’s sharp as an island machete.

About a holy trinity that don’t include the mother.

I look at her scarred knuckles. I know exactly how she was taught faith.

It is ungrateful to resent my own birth.

Sometimes it seems like writing is the only way I keep from hurting.

my heart is one of Darwin’s finches learning to fly.

Misunderstood? Perhaps by some. But those of us who can relate, we get her.

Representation Matters

And I think about all the things we could be if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.

Because no one will ever take care of me but me.