The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

The day my period came, in fifth grade, was just that, the ending of a childhood sentence. The next phrase starting in all CAPS.

he didn’t fight because my hands became fists for him. My hands learned how to bleed when other kids tried to make him into a wound.

My brother was birthed a soft whistle: quiet, barely stirring the air, a gentle sound. But I was born all the hurricane he needed to lift—and drop—those that hurt him to the ground.

although I like to look, I hate to be seen.

When I’m told to have faith in the father the son in men and men are the first ones to make me feel so small.

I once heard a rumor that goldfish have an evolutionary gene where they’ll only develop as big as the tank they’re put into. They need space to stretch. And I wonder if Twin and I are keeping each other small. Taking up the space that would have let the other grow.

He is an award-winning bound book, where I am loose and blank pages.

Sometimes Someone Says Something And their words are like the catch of a gas stove, the click, click while you’re waiting for it to light up and then flame big and blue.

And about this apple, how come God didn’t explain why they couldn’t eat it? He gave Eve curiosity but didn’t expect her to use it? Unless the apple is a metaphor? Is the whole Bible a poem?

“I’m just a writer . . . but maybe I’d be the Poet X.”

He’s Mami’s miracle. He would become her sin.

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

I’m not sorry I kissed a boy. I’m only sorry I was caught. Or that I had to hide it at all.”

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.