My poem aims to turn the challenge myself and other girls of Generation F have to face into something worthy of celebration. It is a modern reimagining of Whitman’s “Song of Myself.”
I celebrate every letter in my name and every word in my body
Every comma of bone
Every exclamation point smile turned
question-mark frown . . . and back again?
My semicolon waist . . .
Have you yet learned the grammar of your ligaments?
Have you yet become self-literate?
Do not erase your graphite smudges
to become legible to others
Replace all your “but”s with “and”s . . . let yourself be plural
Live in the contradictions without . . . fear of being
understood
I celebrate my allergies . . . the ways my body knows her limits
there are some things she will not accept . . . I will not accept
Any cell in my body is a fighter . . .
any self in my body is a fighter
The song of pen scratching paper . . . the sound of beautiful
friction,
Pulse, raw cuticles, the taste of metal, the school bell,
The world’s conjugation and subjugation
The rhythm of sweat sliding at the pace of tears . . . My
anxiety is worth boasting about
I am worth boasting about
The cacophony of my heart burning madly is not a disorder
How long have you believed the world . . . . . . . you are the one in need of reorder?
I celebrate the lone eggshell in the sink
The recipe called for three . . . I cleared away two Know I was here
Accept my un-apology for taking up space
I celebrate each superstition . . . religious as a holiday . . . spiritual as a bedtime story
I look away from the teapot so it can boil
I deliberate over eyelash wishes
I turn reality into ritual . . . I am not pretending
Study the language of yourself
Teach it to others and be patient
Remember that for so long you had dyslexia of the self . . . the world twisted you into an alphabet you did not recognize
Learn your letters, the words of your body
Start with your name