As a teenager, I paid detached interest in English class.
I couldn't deal with Shakespeare and had no patience for pentameters, iambic or not. Writing was predominantly by old white men who bored me half to death. Their poetry was mouldy bread; a soggy genre of language. Though I'm sure upon revisiting their work I would get a lot more out of it, in high school it felt irrelevant and awfully calligraphic. It didn't represent my concerns over ankle socks, being the chubby kid during netball summers and that blistered knee graze called growing up.
It was pure happenstance that I discovered poetry. I found it before I knew it had a name, fishing online through the depths of Tumblr. I liked the quotes I read, and I wanted to read more of them. Occupying my living room headspace, Clementine von Radics petitioned "to keep my bad habits like charms on a bracelet". Lang Leav pleaded that, "If you were kind, / you'd cut the tether — / but I must ask you / to be cruel." When I felt my most misunderstood, someone across the globe had documented my exact feelings.
With the help of working Wi-Fi and a keyboard, I found these resonant voices everywhere. They lived in my phone, my laptop, the kitchen and bathtub; browsing YouTube until the water went cold. Pretty, by Kate Makkai, was regular company for me, as was Lily Myers' Shrinking Women. After school, my best friend and I would swap html links like text messages. We would scour the web, sending dozens of quotes and images like care packages.
Here were people who had lived my own experiences, and then responded to them. They showed me scabs of broken hearts and bandaged relationships. Before I felt open to talk about mental health and self-image, these poets had already discussed, and lived, these topics. It was these founding writers who made me realise language could be written to be received.