My first poetry slam left me feeling empty.
Burdened.
As if I were holding everyone’s feelings in the palms of my hands.

My teacher read with a straight face,
her voice as dry as sand.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The poems were anonymous but some of them
I was sure would earn a kid or two a call home,
sounding like a cry for help or suicide threat.

And even though we were just a high school class
some kids wrote with a brushstroke of color,
sure to one day be an aspiring author.

But me, my writing was beige
quick and to the point without much room for one to ponder
a poem or two about unrequited love that the kids called
"Cute”.

But that day as I walked out
I didn’t feel cute or cool or even creative.
I felt a weight on my shoulders,
heavier than even the textbooks in my backpack
I felt burdened