RL Stine says he tries to discourage as many people as possible from writing poetry because the world has enough bad poets. What RL Stine doesn't realize is that being a poet isn't an occupation, it's a lifestyle. What RL Stine doesn't realize is that I'm not trying to write poetry, I'm trying to touch him where my hands couldn't. And some words build houses in my throat and burn there, content hanging onto my every thought. And that my poetry is the difference between a few roaming tears and breaking down and screaming at the moon. He doesn't know that writing is why I don't flinch at his name anymore and how I've managed to keep the promise I made to bleed for better reasons.

It makes sense that our ribs are cages, but I would recommend making them out of steel next time because mine still seem to collapse a lot. Maybe mine are paper mâché because things that seem like nothing take an AK and blow my soul open. Lately all I seem to be is bones and questions so I probably can't write Mr. Stine a convincing essay on bad poetry, but I very well could write him a pamphlet on what surviving looks like. I'd say to him, Mr. RL Stine, Mr. Daddy Issues, Mr. Patriarchy, surviving looks like candle waxed bic lighters and the seasons running down my thighs and cheeks. Looks like silver flesh falling off, bruised ribs, and black eyes on white girls. It's when your face is a small riot and every year was a hell of a year. It sounds like glass crunching, smells like late night incense and has no sense of time. It looks like burnt edges. Survival looks like a bad poet, Mr. Stine. You have an ugly soul, Mr. Stine.