In my 7th grade English class, we spent half the year analyzing the works of Emily Dickinson because "poetry is Gods gift to the voiceless".

Two years later I would meet a girl who cried verse
and bled syllables
whose notebooks were filled with melancholy metonymy
and she was Gods gift but I have never heard anything louder than the graphite screams etchedin her words.
Poetry is Gods gift to the voiceless but I didn't know.
I didn't know people could be
flesh and blood
and bone and
poetry.
I didn't know she would wring metaphors from my lungs,
snap my bones into line breaks.
I didn't know she would slow my heart to keep time or scatter my middle name when she couldn't find the right letter and I didn't know she, with her scarred fingertips and scabby lips would turn me into
poetry.