i am not a poet

Kole Kealey

i touched rock bottom before i ever touched a

pen, so do not call me a poet

call me your mother tongue,

burning the back of your throat making your

blood boil, a taste you can’t quite name but

rhymes with copper and death, with misery and

despair, the taste of childhood meant for

someone else, one you didn’t experience but

through the rose-colored lenses of your broken

heart tethered to a string being dragged through

busted up concrete, through fragments of broken

glass and shattered dreams

call me salvation

on a Sunday morning when your words no

longer have meaning and your bones ache with

desire for the mundane, when your blood runs

blue with the lack of oxygen left pumping

through your body, when your tears run dry and

your legs stop moving forward, face down in the

dirt you dug up for your grave

call me down on your knees

begging for mercy from your god while she

laughs in your face saying “i told you so,” saying,

“fix your own damn mess because i gave you the

challenge but i did not tell you to fight,” saying,

“fuck you and your salvation, you deserve

nothing but rock bottom, babe, fight and claw

your way back,” saying, “blood, sweat, and tears

mean nothing if you aren’t on bloody mud-

soaked knees begging for my mercy”

call me the truth

that runs down your thighs when your razor

scars bust open with hatred and the desire to

meet Daughter Death, the knife blade stuck in

your ribs, the broken handles of lust and love of

Aphrodite’s weapon, rising from the ashes of

Lilith, from the darkness of Persephone, and the

blood stains on your white satin sheets

call me shame

on the bathroom floor of a bar leaning over a

toilet because you thought that sixth drink was

enough to lessen the pain of not having enough

words to describe the heartache you feel in your

bones, no matter how hard you try to put a

name to it

call me resurrection

on a Monday morning when you find the words

to give that voice in your head a goddamned

name different from the demons in your soul,

different from shame, disgust, anger, or fear,

different from the names you hear in the mirror,

different from the horror you see in the

reflection on your mother’s face

call me your mother tongue, salvation, truth, or

shame, call me mercy or even resurrection if you

must, but do not call me a poet. i am simply the

pain you brought to life with your still-beating

heart

More from Kole Kealey ↓

• @kolekealeypoetry on Instagram
• Her book Sunflowers Sting: Where Poetry Meets Boudoir will be out soon.

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO