I first heard
the word "suicide"
during my 6th grade chorus class.
A couple girls were crying
in the back of the room.
Our teacher asked them
what was wrong,
and with words broken by sobs,
they explained that their friend
wasn't in school today,
and yesterday
that same friend
had said,
"If I'm not in school tomorrow,
it means I killed myself."
Now, these girls were 11.
They didn't know what to do.
Our teacher, who was at least 40,
was barely able to keep her composure
when she sent those girls down to guidance.
We got a lecture after that.
"You're not alone in what you're feeling."
"Talk to someone."
"People care about you."
After the lecture,
we practiced for our spring concert.
I felt weird singing after that,
but it was supposed to make us feel better.
It didn't.

8 years later, I am still trying
to understand the word "suicide."
Because now, I have to resist the urge to tell people,
"If I'm not in class tomorrow,
it means I killed myself," and,
"If I don't come to work this weekend,
it means I killed myself."
I have never uttered those words,
not once in my life,
but I now it makes sense to me
why that girl in my sixth grade class would.
The world is so full of pain
and suffering
and heart ache.
If your arms and legs are decorated with red and white lines,
if the very thought of his smile or her laugh brings you to the ground,
if you have no one to comfort you at 3 am
when your depression is running rampant
and your thoughts are so loud
that you have to cover your ears to quiet them...
that is no way to live.

A piece of you
Reflecting back
The bitter words in your mouth
Too raw to speak
A poet is
Someone in pain
And someone in love
Someone who looks at the world
Through a kaleidoscope
Who takes a magnifying glass to each
And every
Word you say
And lets them imprint on their heart
A poet is
A star gazer
A dreamer
A chaser of
The improbable
But hopes anyway
A poet is
Tissue paper skin
A heart of glass
And a soul of titanium

A poet is
A sharp tongue
And a gentle kiss
She is a sob
He is a sigh
A poet is
The sun at midnight
Bright and
Burning
Hot
Alive
But cloaked in a darkness
They cannot shake
The brightest day
And the darkest night
A poet is
The human experience
A paradox
An oxymoron
So complicatedly
Simple

A poet is
A lover
Who refuses
To stop wearing their heart on their sleeve
No matter how much it bleeds
But rolls them up
So you can’t see
The blood stains


A poet
Is Poetry