When I was young,
they called my Hurricane.
Because even my brother feared my wrath.
Because “so help me god,
if you touch me one more time”
Wasn't a threat he completed.
Because Barbie never seemed like fun,
And GI Joe kicked so much ***.
“Hurricane”
Because the boys in elementary school
got punched when they called me names
And the boys in high school
Got slapped or pinched or kicked or flipped
Off for trying to kiss me without permission.
They called me Hurricane
Because if there was chaos,
it was me.

Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”

Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.

Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”

Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.

I asked him if we were okay
And,
“Jesus Chirst. What are you so
Scared of?”
And he rubbed his face.
“Loving me? or the fact that I love you back?”
I look down and,
“I swear to God, it's like you think no one should ever love you back.”

She wore one
Red sock and one
Yellow sock
And he said
She looked like a sunrise.

It is 4:30 in the afternoon
And I tell you
This is my favorite time of day.
You ask why
So I point to the gold
Streaming in the window,
Bouncing off the dust.
And you kiss me.
Maybe 4:31 in the afternoon
Is my favorite time of day.

My mother used to hide *****
In the freezer,
In the back behind the peas and corn.
I decided to try it.
A sip and a burn
And my lips went numb.
That's what it felt like to kiss you.
A gulp, or two
Or three
Or seven, (who's counting?)
later I got a head rush and
that's what it felt like to kiss you;
The burn and the numbness.
The release of realizing
You were far more intoxicating.

See the thing is
I could tell you
I love you
In 167 or however many
Different languages.
And I could hope it would suffice.
Or I could whisper it
Against your lips,
Our silhouettes entwined
In the light of an alarm clock
That reads
3:14AM.