Words,
I loved to make their
curvy shapes
and give lower case a its little umbrella.
I loved rearranging
sounds like jewelry.
I could string them
into symphonies
like Dixon Ticonderoga pencil.
I could nudge them
into small whispering choirs,
like juicy plums in summer.
I could sprinkle words
like stars,
shimmering adjectives
like smoky and rambunctious.
I could erase entire
galaxies
with the pink nub of
my pencil.
What I never
understood is why
grown-ups make
erasers so short.
As if they don’t want
kids
to make any mistakes.
Maybe I wrote stories
because taping
feathers to cardboard wings
couldn’t reach the
summer sky.
Maybe I wrote so that
I could build castles
and dragon nests, so
I could
listen to whale
songs,
explore forbidden
forests,
and ride
rollercoasters.
Maybe I wrote
so that I could turn
my sister
into a fly when she
bugged me,
so I could heal the
cancer in my uncle’s body
and most importantly,
so that I could be loud.
Because I was always
the nice girl who
couldn’t
speak up for herself.
Maybe I wrote because
shy girls are filled
with streamers of
color
and deep oceans
and thunder
and stars.
Maybe I write because
shy girls, too,
need to be loud.
