Exaltation

Chapter 1

I watch her eyes as she reads over the poem.

Reach for his hand/ as he whispers the secrets of his world,/ a little delicately, into/ the confines of my chest.

"There's a lot that needs improvement here," she says, setting the page down on her desk. Her voice searches, finds. Always has. Always will. I inhale deeply and cross my legs.

"I know, I've been struggling with my diction lately—"

"I don't mean with diction. I mean with the whole thing, Sophie. You've been in this program for four years now, and there's still been no improvement," she replies. I swallow, grappling for the right words, the right comeback. She pulls out a pen and begins crossing out lines of the piece.

He is gentle in a way that/ cannot be forgotten. Bruises/ my sheets with poignancy.

"This- this isn't art. This is a juvenile sex poem," she breathes. Crosses out another line.

"Yeah." I fidget uncomfortably. This is how it always goes— I bring Ms. Adams my poetry (not by my own will, of course, but by necessity of the program) and she criticizes. Don't worry, I want to say. As soon as I graduate, you'll never have to read another juvenile sex poem again.

She hands me the paper. She's crossed things out so violently it's torn in some places, the blue ink bleeding caustically onto the back of the sheet. There are only fragments of the original piece left untouched. Mere words here and there.

"You have promise, Sophie. Truly. I wouldn't be so hard on you if I didn't believe that you could be great," she says. And maybe, deep-down, she means it. I close my eyes, open them. She's staring at me intently. Sometimes I think there is incredible love to be found there . But then I look down at the poem, a shell of what it had been before, and nod.

"I'll try to.... improve... by the next draft."

It's not a promise. I've never promised anything to Ms. Adams because there is not a promise I could make to her I would ever be able to fulfill.

I return to my seat. Our poetry class is small—eight people—and we sit silently, waiting to be called for our individual meetings with Ms. Adams about our most recent drafts. I know that everyone in the class heard what had just happened, but no one dares meet my eye. Not even my best friend, Emma. Still, she reaches under the table and lets her hand rest on my knee. A telling.

".....truly astonishing work, Jack. I'm so proud of the progress you've made...." Ms. Adams' voice carries across the classroom. I bow my head. Return to my poem. Suddenly, I find that I am disgusted by my own words.

The bone so pale and so unopened. The heart that sits/ almost mouse-like in its cavity.

The only lines she's left fully untouched. I feel tears press and compress behind my eyes. Push them, as usual, back down. Make a formal agreement with myself that after I get out of here, I won't ever write a poem again.

*

Growing up, sadness engulfed me. I was entrenched in my despair, unable to find a light, unable to cope with the world that was occurring around me. When I started writing, it was like a little bit of the black veil of hopelessness had risen. It sounds dramatic, but it's painfully true. For most of my life, writing was the reason I was able to breathe.

When I found out that there was a local high school with a specialized creative writing program, I jumped at the opportunity to audition. According to my fiction-writing teacher, I received admission with flying colors. The best portfolio we'd seen, she'd said, looking at me with admiration.

The bliss, of course, didn't last long. Ms. Adams, my poetry teacher, was mentally unfit to be in a position of such power. Her own veil had never been lifted, and her tunnel was far deeper and darker than any of ours ever had been. She gravitated towards some students and away from others. My writing, which had always been praised, had met its match with her.

There isn't a feeling in the world that can quite compare to being not just judged, but graded on, your innermost feelings and desires. Being forced to share your secrets with a world that didn't want to hear them. The days became longer, and getting out of bed was once again an impossible task. The thought of hearing Ms. Adams caustically critique the pain I had spent my entire life working towards putting on paper was too much.

*

On the last day of high school, I stay in Ms. Adams' classroom for a moment after everyone else had left.

"Sophie," she states. She doesn't look up from the book she's reading.

"Hi, Ms. Adams. I just came to say goodbye."

She closes the book and stands up. She's a bit taller than I am, and although she's older, there is something intensely beautiful about her. An ache somewhere deep inside of me stirs.

"You excited to be out of here?" She asks.

"Yeah, I am. I think college will be good for me." A smile plays at her lips.

"I think it will be, too."

There's a silence. There are things with which I want to fill this gap— stories of how she hurt me, of how I no longer feel like a writer, about my intended biology major. About all the things I never wrote about but should have.

"Anyway, I just thought I'd stop by to wish you well, Ms. Adams."

"Thank you for doing so."

We share a quick embrace, which is nothing like how it was with the rest of the class when she said goodbye to them. This one is quick, mostly shoulder, and lacking any sort of affection. It's a ritual she has to complete, I am sure, for her own moral satisfaction. There is not an ounce of love to be found in it. Absolute emptiness.

I leave. A little more hollowed than before.