The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

“Good girls don’t wear tampones. Are you still a virgin? Are you having relations?”

For as long as I can remember I’ve only ever called my brother “Twin.” He actually is named after a saint, but I’ve never liked to say his name. It’s a nice name, or whatever, even starts with an X like mine, but it just doesn’t feel like the brother I know. His real name is for Mami, teachers, Father Sean. But Twin? Only I can call him that, a reminder of the pair we’ll always be.

I should be used to it. I shouldn’t get so angry when boys—and sometimes grown-ass men— talk to me however they want, think they can grab themselves or rub against me or make all kinds of offers. But I’m never used to it.

what’s the point of God giving me life if I can’t live it as my own?

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

I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.