Lies in between stanzas

when i say that i am not a poet,
i don’t mean that i am not passionate.
i’m passionate about things that don’t rhyme.
i’m passionate about abortions and the economy.
i’m passionate about healthcare and human rights.
i’m passionate about the wage gap hear thigh gaps.
when i say that i am not a poet,
i mean that i can’t think of clever metaphors for disasters
for rape
or misogyny.
i mean that i don’t understand the difference between who and whom, but who does?
i mean that i will not dismantle the patriarchy with flowering words
with words of rhyme
 or intellect.
i mean that i appreciate my sisters that can grow their words together into mellifluous gardens.
i mean that i am more than happy to sing along to their tunes of pain and comradery.
i mean that these word didn’t just flow out of me.
i mean that i had to work for them to come out on paper.
when i say that i’m not a poet,
i mean that i slept with these words under my pillow for so long that they have started seeping into my dreams.
i dream words.
when i say that i am not a poet,
i am lying.
there is a beat to my hair flip.
there is a rhythm my tears.
there is a beauty in the way i walk.  
i am a poet,
because
i am a poem.
there is a simile in the way my hair falls on my back like a wave of products marketed to the middle class white woman.
a wave that threatens to drown,
there is a metaphor in the way i pull my hair back with rope,
the same rope used to tie my sisters to the stake as they are called witches.
there is a rhythm in the way i smile through the tears even when i think all is lost.
when i say that i am not a poet
i am lying