"Flushed and In Bloom"
 by Marcus Amaker When I was in the 8th grade, 
I wore baggy pants
 and my book bag on my chest 
because I was not bold enough 
to throw the monkey
off my back. Inside of the backpack was
 a lack of confidence
 weighing me down. I had not found my voice. This is the portrait
 of a Black boy 
in bloom, 
the brown eyed baby
 whose birth’s purpose
 was to unearth poems. When I was in the 9th grade, 
I became brilliant
at being silent and building up barriers, 
lost in the soundproof walls of my mind, trying to find my voice. This is a portrait
 of a bashful teenager in bloom, 
blind to the way 
he was bruising his inner strength,
 searching and searching 
for a voice. When I was in the 10th grade, I ate lunch alone in the bathroom stall. I was so shy that eye contact clicked a lock in my throat. Because of that, it was impossible to indulge in food or cook up a conversation so isolation had its advantages and served me well. I got used to it, and the awkward smell of a boys bathroom, the inadequate way toilet paper impersonates a napkin, the sound of Airwalks squeaking on brown tile and the way my mouth, full of food, could turn tight-lipped in a flash, the ease in which I could hold my breath and hide from an undiscovered abundance, the disgusting rubber chewy meat of a undercooked hot dog swimming in an anxious belly. I was never hungry for attention, but I starved for silence. And I had not found my voice. Side note: Raise your hand if you are frustrated that your school didn’t offer a class on how to be invisible. I had to learn it in my own and create my own curriculum. I taught myself how to quarantine 30 years before the pandemic, 30 years before knowing that it wasn’t healthy to walk around hallways with an emotional violence, going to war with myself with every weapon I could fit in my palm, before I learned that making poems would be the best kind of bomb. Because poetry saved me.
 Poetry brought me back 
to my core. 
Poetry blossomed the boy
 who didn’t know
he had wings, 
poetry made me sing. When I was in tune 
to write this poem,
 I brushed off any bad feelings
 about myself
 because I broke free from 
that monkey on my back 
and I unpacked
 a beautiful,
 booming,
 blissful
 and brave voice. This is the portrait
 of me now.