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.

 


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