Stomp

I come home,

feet about to bleed

from angry stomping.

“Boy!” says Mom.

“Quit making all that racket.”

But what does she expect

when, day after day,

haters sling words at me

like jagged stones

designed to split my skin?

I retreat to my room,

collapse on the bed,

count, “One. Two. Three...”

When I get to ten,

I snatch up journal and pen,

flip to a clean page,

and unload my hurt, my rage

’til I can breathe, again.

Letter by letter,

I rediscover

my power to decide

which words matter,

which words don’t,

and whose.

Calm, now, I remember:

I get to choose.