"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.