Elizabeth Acevedo

A truth
you did not want
to know
can rot & grow mold
in the pit
of your stomach,
can sour
every taste
you’ve ever had,
can cast a stench
so bad you forget
you’ve ever known
a sweet thing.

And I’m not the type to believe
“everything is a sign” or whatever,
but when so many parts of my life
all point in one direction . . .
it’s hard not to follow the arrows.

And how crazy would it be
if I did that for someone else?

It almost feels like

the more I bruise the page

the quicker something inside me heals.

The way the words say what I mean,

how they twist and turn language,

how they connect with people.

How they build community.

I finally know that all of those

“I’ll never, ever, ever”

stemmed from being afraid but not even they

can stop me. Not anymore.

And the more I write the braver I become.

“I don’t know if I told you.
But I’m on your side. Always.”

And what about me? What about Xiomara?
When has anyone ever told me
I had the right to stop it all
without my knuckles, or my anger,
with just some simple words.

But our arms can do
what our words can’t just now.
Our arms can reach.
Can hug tight.
Can teach us
to remember each other.
That love can be a band:
tears if you pull it too hard,
but also flexible enough
to stretch around the most chaotic mass.

She tells me words give people permission
to be their fullest self. And aren’t these the poems
I’ve most needed to hear?