I held her book to my chest
closed my eyes and sighed.
I want to write like her, I said
my voice meek on a small
wave of breath. the words
daggered between my ribs
and guilt bled out in crimson
rivulets. why is it so difficult
to want to write like me? why
does it feel like only in death
will come the grand validation
I so vehemently crave in
this body alive? why does
it matter? is there some
writer holding my book to
her chest wishing to write
like me? may this poem
strike grace on my heart
– stigmata the muscle
that knows the truth:
I can unfasten this
want for the object
that it is. guilt too.
these feelings
last as long
as I let
them.
VANESSA SHIELDS 
Yes, I do. I hold your poems close to my chest and hope to learn to write like you. I’m learning! And I am learning to value my voice too!
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