The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

When your body takes up more room than your voice you are always the target of well-aimed rumors, which is why I let my knuckles talk for me.

If Medusa was Dominican and had a daughter, I think I’d be her. I look and feel like a myth. A story distorted, waiting for others to stop and stare.

what’s the point of God giving me life if I can’t live it as my own? Why does listening to his commandments mean I need to shut down my own voice?

It was just a poem, Xiomara, I think. But it felt more like a gift.

In my dreams his is a mouth that knows more than curses and prayer. More than bread and wine. More than water. More than blood. More.

She knew since she was little, the world would not sing her triumphs, but she took all of the stereotypes and put them in a chokehold until they breathed out the truth.

Xiomara may be remembered as a lot of things: a student, a miracle, a protective sister, a misunderstood daughter, but most importantly, she should be remembered as always working to become the warrior she wanted to be.

The world is almost peaceful when you stop trying to understand it.

Your silence furnishes a dark house. But even at the risk of burning, the moth always seeks the light.

“Burn it! Burn it. This is where the poems are,” I say, thumping a fist against my chest. “Will you burn me? Will you burn me, too? You would burn me, wouldn’t you, if you could?”