The night I wrote my first poem
Was the same night I had my heart broken
The first time.
And when I look back at it,
I can’t help but marvel at how two things,
And so meaningful,
Could have happened on the same eve.
As bits and pieces of my childhood broke away,
Revealing layers much deeper,
I sat in a jostling car,
Pink butterfly diary in hand.
And I let the grief seep out of me
Onto the page.
And I felt something buried
Deep inside my chest,
For the words I had yet to write.
That first poem,
Those lines scribbled in fear and love,
Were the start of me.
Verse and phrase,
One line below the next.
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