The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

If my body was a Country Club soda bottle, it’s one that has been shaken and dropped and at any moment it’s gonna pop open and surprise the whole damn world.

He is not elegant enough for a sonnet, too well-thought-out for a free write, taking too much space in my thoughts to ever be a haiku.

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.

His hand lighting a match inside my body.

And I’m so glad he’s changed the subject. That I answer before I think: “I’m just a writer . . . but maybe I’d be the Poet X.”

Later, when I walk into confirmation class I know I’m wearing Aman’s kiss like a bright red sweater. Anyone who looks at me will know I know what it means to want. In that way. Because I didn’t want to stop kissing. And we didn’t.

Maybe, the only thing that has to make sense about being somebody’s friend is that you help them be their best self

on any given day. That you give them a home when they don’t want to be in their own.

And now his smile is a little sad. And I think about all the things we could be if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.

Walking home from the train I can’t help but think Aman’s made a junkie out of me: begging for that hit eyes wide with hunger blood on fire licking the flesh waiting for the refresh of his mouth.

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

Pushing away from my locker, I face the dude who groped me, push him hard in the back. He stumbles but before he can react I look him dead in the eye:

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

How your lips are staples that pierce me quick and hard.

My little words feel important, for just a moment. This is a feeling I could get addicted to.

I will never write a single poem ever again. I will never let anyone see my full heart and destroy it.