When the Poem Is About Me

I’ve spent the week drowning in other people’s poetry, because apparently I enjoy torturing myself with the fear I’ll never measure up. Sometimes I’ve convinced myself of this, even though nobody’s seen my writing in years. It’s that maddening little voice whispering, “What if you’re not good enough?”

But I’m doing it anyway. Hell, it’s art, subjective. It’s who I am.

I’ve been writing poems since I was a kid. The first two that were published ran under anonymous names because I was mortified someone might actually read them. Unfortunately, I can’t even find copies of them anymore. I buried my name so deep, I outsmarted even myself.

Back in my Tumblr days (I know, throwback here), I used to post poems into the void, fully expecting no one to care. Soon, I started to gain a small following, then one day, a stranger messaged me asking if he could tattoo two stanzas of mine on his sleeve. I said yes. He sent a photo. I lost it. If you’re still out there: I love you. Please send another pic (:

I’ve always been the creative type. But creative people are often quiet about it until they’re brave enough to be loud. So here I am. Louder. Older. Maybe not ready, but I am willing.

Because this next chapter of my life is about sharing what I’ve been hiding. Not just for me, but for the younger version of me who was too scared to use her own name. And for the ones reading this now, who still are.

We’re working on small PR stunts. We’re building connections for a little tour. We’re plotting the kind of release that doesn’t just announce a poetry book, but lasts in your thoughts, makes a connection. But before any of that, before the mics and the lights and the business plan, I need to share it here, with you.

I’ll be testing pieces at open mics. I used to be the leading lady of a theatre, but this feels different. I’m not hiding behind a script, a character, or this fictitious character card announcing my whole life and persona as a strategy to finish the scene. It’ll be me, standing in front of strangers who are begging for something other than rhyming, cliche lines of heartbreak. I’m quite terrified.

And look, some of my poems rhyme. Some are about heartbreak, and I have cheesy ones too. But mostly, I live in rhythm, not rhyme. Multi-layered plotlines, sonnets, prose poems, little stabs of memory that drip and dry before the next verse hits. (Working on villanelles and pantoums too, in case you want the nerdy breakdown. 💋)

My poetry collection is one of darkness, heartbreak, as well as life and love, but not in the way that’s been done before. These aren’t recycled metaphors or stitched-up heartbreak haikus.

These are stories, some mine, some borrowed from the world around me, and held under a microscope until it cracked open and I saw what was real. It’s not always autobiographical, but it is always personal.

Some of the poems were written in the thick of it: breakups, betrayals, silence that screamed louder than words. Others came from years of watching, watching people love poorly, watching families fall apart at the dinner table, watching joy show up in the middle of pain like an uninvited guest that still knows your name. Some are prose poems, some sonnets, some built like little cinematic scenes with layered plotlines you don’t see coming. And yes, I’m experimenting with new styles and methods, because I love a challenge. And I love it even more when feeling slips into form and still comes out breathing.

This collection is broken into chapters: Dark, Breakup, Life, and Love, because I believe you have to walk through the first three to understand the last one. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. But it is honest. It’s written for the people who keep going. It’s not meant to be liked. It’s curated to be felt.

Because love, real love, the kind that lingers in the bones and survives the fire, doesn’t arrive clean. It’s dragged in by the ankles, bruised and bleeding, wearing the face of grief and the perfume of hope. It shows up after the mirror has cracked, after your hands have bled from clawing your way back to yourself. As the opening poem says, “We understand”—not because we were handed peace, but because we fought for it with every last breath.

This book is for the ones who ran toward the light even with hell burned into their souls. For the girl crying in her car who still fixes her makeup before walking back into the world. For the man who remembers every word his father never said. For the friend you lost without closure. For anyone who’s ever had to decide what’s worth staying for. For the ones who have loved through strife and still call it love.

But before I read you this poem, let me tell you about the night I wore the most plunging neckline of my life, and felt safe doing it.

JK, first, the poem. (;

Here’s one that may still yet be revised (perfectionism), but I’m willing to share.

It’s called Some Things Are Easy.

« INSERT SOME THINGS ARE EASY POEM »

Anyway. After all that emotional excavation, I put on a dress and went out.

It was soft and loud all at once. I wore the most plunging neckline I own, and went out—and I mean an OG millennial style clubbing night out. In honor of Pride month, we hopped from one LGBT+ bar to the next in Washington, D.C., dancing, laughing, and existing. I didn’t get groped. I wasn’t leered at. I didn’t feel like prey. I was celebrated. I was adored. And it made me furious.

That was it. No performance, no pretending. Just a space not built for the male gaze, and a few people who made breathing feel easy. That’s what safety should feel like.

I don’t want to scream “it’s men’s fault” into the void. That’s too easy. It’s really society. It’s women who stay friends with men who abuse. It’s the guys who shrugs it off as a rumor. It’s the best friends, the families, the coworkers who know what he did, and still choose brunch. Still invites him. Still protects him.

And to be clear: some sins you don’t come back from. Not in a friend group. Not in a partner. Not in a business deal. Not in my life. Some violence is so deep no apology can make it social again. No remorse, no true change, never will be enough. That’s the truth.

We need to do better. And I don’t mean performatively. I mean for real.

If you made it this far, thank you.

Next week’s post will be another poem—or maybe a behind-the-scenes look into the making of this book, or just another drama venting session about all the random dramatic shit that happens in my life. Either way, I’ll see you next week.

xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C