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.