I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with poetry, but I did.

Poetry speaks through my fingers
as clearly as my body moves when I dance.
An art I never understood,
its words took me hours to decipher—
but then, they captured my soul.

I fell.
Hard.
Now, poetry is my addiction.

The books I never owned,
the Maya Angelou verses that once felt like riddles,
slowly unraveled,
slipping into place,
becoming all I crave.

To let go,
to let loose,
to surrender—
poetry took me there.

It opened my legs,
****** me up so hard
I squirted for poetry.
It held me in its arms,
whispered, it’s okay.

Poetry shared its tears with me,
let me cry into its lap,
fingers stroking my hair,
soft, like a mother’s touch—
nurturing, healing.

Poetry is the long-legged woman
picking herbs from her garden
to soothe the sick.

Poetry is confusing.
Sometimes invisible,
sometimes piercingly clear.

It’s like the guy who ghosted you—
but always comes back.

I used to fear poetry,
felt too small,
too insecure,
unworthy.

But poetry never turned me away.
It took my trembling hands and said,
It’s okay to try.

Thank you, poetry.
It’s nice to fall in love.