Squeeze

I thought I might have grown out of poetry

the way I’ve spilled out of jeans,

leaving indentations on my waist.

The red marks stain white on blank page-

can’t quite see em.

But no matter the words,

I squeeze them from my pen

until I ask questions in the mirror.

“You are a fake poet-”

My eyes stare back at mine

and I feel desperation in their circles.

I want to find a poem in my gut

the way I want to find skinny;

the way i want to find fit;

the way I want to find “you’re beautiful,”

and eyes glued and fingertips and good lighting and likes and follows and heart eye emojis and water drop emojis and safety and desire and finished products and 50 dollar leggings and pumping heart rates and snatched waist and ass ass ass ass ass and promo codes and amazon shipments and if only I could look like this then I can love myself like this-

I want to find love in poetry.

I want to settle into

line breaks

and metaphors that warm my skin,

the way the sun kisses my curves

that rock like ocean.

I was convinced I’ve grown out of poetry

and now I just want poems

to grow out of me.

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