Someone Like Me {Poetry}

Rowling Racing Me

I had meant for this thing -

           this project, this fragment

of my heart

                    to be of service to others.

I intended for their bright laughter

           to shower my screen,

           to agree, to like,

                    to acknowledge me.

I meant for these flaws -

           twenty-five, fifty, and counting -

                      to represent my devotion

           for that thing which

Changed me.

Inspired me.

Made Me Human,

           all with soft paper hands.

                      I stole the breath of science;

           Thieved the spirits of time;

                      And numbed the winds of reason

just for its intricate creation.

           I began to think deeper

           about that which defined me

           nine years ago.

           [ Perhaps, so much,

                      that I soon came to define it. ]

And thus came my suffering,

           my demise, my very

                      first deathly daze,

where I simply stared at bookshelves

           like a broken fool.

They Ruined Me.

They Took My Words,

Bent Them, Ate Them,

And Destroyed Them.

                                                      They told me that my opinion didn't matter,

                                                       that I had no opinion, they reminded me in

                                                        a dozen languages to read that which I already

                                                        prized seven times . . . and then hush up, and realize,

That They Despised Me.

                                                          They loathed me for questioning the highest values

                                                           of unquestionable majesties, for Not Being Sensible,

                                                           for not succumbing to their predictable ideas, for

                                                           not understanding the universe skin deep, for not

Heeding Them.

Never have I been so wronged. It is like returning to a reality that I left behind, forgot even, due to my exceptionalism these past beautiful years. It is having my intelligence questioned by careless keystrokes when I so firmly portrayed my inner essense through schoolwork, integrity and tireless thought, and displayed it so perfectly with poetry. But today I realize - and perhaps much too late - that this was never about Them. It was always about Me. When I inhale rancid air shimmering with rage, and take apart subtle summer dreams, it is because I listened to my intuition. And never again will I read the comments appended by

                       Monsters.