i'm not a poet, i keep telling them. but they don't listen. they don't believe me. hush, they say. and yet they tell me to speak, to speak my heart, to read my words. but i don't read aloud, i tell them. i write words down. you read them. that is how it goes. i am not a poet, i say.

and then i think of the little girl at the children's hospital where i used to volunteer. she asked carrie to draw a picture.

"but i can't draw," carrie said.

"you have hands, don't you?" the girl replied.

i have a voice, don't i? well, yes. but it stutters and stumbles and mumbles under my breath. it is housed in a gangly body that trips and falls and doesn't stand up straight. it likes to laugh loudly and sing loudly -- but not on a stage, and certainly not in the center of the stage.

hopefully the lights will be blaring at my eyes, and i won't be able to see them, he said. if they could do it, so could i, she said. and they will love me, he said; they already love me.

so i said yes. i am not a poet, but i'll do it, i said. i can't do it, but i will, i said.

because maybe secretly i want to read. maybe i want to prove myself wrong.