Poetry is scattered messily across my bedroom floor. A page I stepped on with a wet foot clings to the ball of my heel before gently peeling away and falling back to the carpet.

Poetry is taped in short verses on the wall from packets and papers I didn’t want to throw away with the rest of my old school documents.

Poetry is the observant person in the bookstore who is just as nosy as I am, briefly locking eyes with me as if to ask, “Are you seeing this too?”

Poetry is the amount of oversharing I do before regretting it monumentally later on.

Poetry is running around my house in my senior prom dress home alone because it makes me feel like the belle of my one woman ball.

Poetry is the FOMO I experience from my side of the river, helpless without a car of my own.

Poetry is watching Elon Musk and Donald Trump tragically break up during pride month, holding my invisible bag of popcorn as it gets messier every hour.

Poetry is re-watching Wicked at midnight and catching new details to analyze them alongside the second trailer, and also realizing that Elphaba and Glinda are totally lovers no matter what the plot says.