Reading Aloud

When I was younger I used to read poems out loud
From Shel Silverstein books
And a collection of poems by random poets
That at that age, I couldn’t yet understand.
I read them to willing audiences—
Usually my stuffed animals or
Maybe my cat if I could convince her to sit still long enough
And the same with my siblings.
I used to make funny voices for different characters
And pretended the stories told
Were my own.
I used to write stories like the ones I read
About animals that could talk
And magical happenings.
I used to fold the pages of
Dozens of pieces of computer paper
Into booklets
And handed them to mom
And she was so proud
And I loved having her read them.
Until I got older and I started reading more advanced novels
And started writing more advanced stories,
And then I was embarrassed to have her read them.
And now I am embarrassed to let anyone read anything I write
Let alone read aloud anymore
Because I am not a poet.
I am not a writer.
I am a girl with big hopes and huge dreams
And small hands and limited vision.
I am a girl who won’t even read to her stuffed animals anymore.
I am a girl whose hands forget how to hold pencils the way I used to,
With the point downward and the stories inside.
I am a girl who,
Pushed away by literary critics she loved,
Pulled away from dreams because they’re not realistic.
I am a girl who,
Crying at night,
Pulls out a notebook and writes for herself
alone.