I’m Gonna Learn How To Bake Books

I remember once in

Seventh grade I signed up for a

Writing class because I loved

Reading so much I figured–

“Fuck it–I’m gonna learn how

To bake books”

I was also going through a massive

Baking phase, anyway–

The class wasn’t really a class at all

It was a club after school

And the people in it were all like

Really shy and skinny and very

Afraid of me or maybe I was just really really

Anxious and had cushing’s syndrome but anyway–

I went to like

Two meetings

And at both meetings

They gave us a prompt

And were like

“Share at the end

What you wrote!”

And I always wrote

What I thought I needed to write

Never wrote

What I wanted to write

If I ever wrote

What I wanted to write

I’d have to basically

Come out as Becky

In seventh grade

Which is like, not responsible–

For most people, anyway.

Being Becky is hard enough as a

Grown adult, I wouldn’t wish this on

Some kid. Alas, I was this

When I was a kid. I am the same

I can’t change

I have tried my whole life to change and to be

Someone else

I tried there, in seventh grade

To write as if I was someone else

And I just couldn’t

My writing was weird and awful and

Embarassing and the other kids in my class

All had lawyers for parents

I went again but then

Quit because I really just wanted to

Write poetry and not have to

Share it with anyone.

I hated having to turn in

What I wrote, I hated having someone

Read all those nonsense lies, read all the

Bullshit I wrote as if I wasn’t

Some faggot queer lunatic in a

Fat woman’s coat. I just don’t understand

Why it took me so long to realize

I’m supposed to write, and I’m

Not supposed to be saying

Any of this shit out loud.


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Subscribe to the Blog

Subscribe Here!

Join 520 other subscribers


Blog Posts

Follow me on Twitter

%d bloggers like this: