The bright blue bottle of Powerade draws me in.
I must be thirsty and dehydrated.
It sits between his laptop and her coffee, full
even an hour later when I pass by that way again.
The bottle is so fat though, I think of the calories,
and go upstairs for coffee instead,
thinking of the salad in the refrigerator
that has gone uneaten today.
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The writing teacher said
I have no voice, or rather
I haven't found it yet
I wanted to write back
to that email and scream.
I have been writing since
I learned how to write,
before the second grade.
What do you mean I haven't found my voice?
I was born a writer, and I am always writing
if only in my head.
Maybe it's the constant contradiction.
I am anonymous, a grain of sand
and yet I yearn to be heard.
Writing is a part of me
I think I have something to say
although I know it has all been said before.
Is there anything more?
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