I’m not a poet.
I’m not.
It’s not in my blood —
it never was, and it never will be.
I think it’s because
I’ve learned and fabricated my thoughts
from always saying the wrong things
at the wrong times
and no one’s ever taught me different.
It never occurred to me
that there was something wrong with me,
until I was reciting sad songs
while my few friends watched closely
as my eyes swelled
and my mouth made the noises
I had practiced the night before in my bedroom
because I was always nervous
in front of people.
It never occurred to me
that there was something wrong with me
until my mom
said depression
was in our blood.
It never occurred to me
that I was seriously fucked up
when I started thinking about death
more than life
or reading fucked up poetry in the bathroom
because I never had time for anything anymore
because I was so caught up in my own head
that I was losing the reality
I’ve finally learned to harvest
in my throat.
But my chest always hurts
and my stomach is always churning,
like the night when my dad went to the hospital
because he thought he had an appendicitis
(he didn’t).
I could never get the words to form
from my chapped lips
because I was always better at writing
than I was at speaking.
I had nicknames in elementary school
for how much I wrote —
stupid nicknames:
"teacher's pet,"
"suck-up."
It never bothered me much,
and it never crossed my mind
that they were picking on me
until a few months ago,
when I called up my friend Keigan,
crying over some poet
I found through my favorite band.
In the introduction
of his poetry book,
“Paper Boats or Some Poems I Wrote,”
he included the words
“If I could go back in time to when I wrote sad poems, I’d go back and punch myself right in the fucking face. Because it gets worse man.”
And I don’t think I missed my childhood
or my stories about kids being forged from fire
and flower petals
and water droplets
more.
Or my stories about kids
who could understand
and talk to their dogs
through their thoughts
(I think it’s called telepathy,
or ESP, but I don't remember.
Fifth grade was so long ago.)
Or the memoirs
Ms. Majority made us write about;
about our favorite family trip
when everyone wrote a page,
two pages tops
while I wrote eight.
That’s how it all started —
and I don’t know.
I think,
lately,
I’ve just wanted to be remembered.
I think — I think I’m going to join the army.
Or the navy.
I just want to be a small town hero,
I guess.
And, hey —
I live in a small town.
It could work.
But I know writing won’t get me
anywhere.
Since when
are writers praised?
Since when
are there special ceremonies
for people
who pour their
sweat and blood
and angst
into ink
to make poems?
Why does it matter?
I'm not a poet,
anyway.
About the Creator
Jasmine Smoot-Leyva
I’m a professional photographer, filmmaker, musician, podcaster, and author based in Dallas, TX. I'm obsessed with tattoos, my two huskies, and being my own person.
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