So I bought your book

So I bought your book,
A little out of pity,
More out of curiosity,
Mostly out of desperation.
Ninth grade poetry is dull.
Boring.
I'm always looking
for new stuff.
So I bought it.

It sat on my ottoman
For only a day
before I picked it up,
took it to my couch,
and proceeded to look
for my name.
You didn't expect any
more of me,
did you now?
You know me better than that.

I read all the poems.
I read about Uncle Wayne.
I even found my name,
and saw that you spelled
it with 2 Ns, just like God
and my mama
intended.
You wrote about my daddy
and the sobs that still
echo in my heart.
You described my
granddaddy
to what we can only call a T.

I sat here
on my couch
with the dog curled at my feet
and read through
this book you're pushing.
And I cried.
I laughed a little.
But I mostly cried.
And those tears,
fat and sassy,
freed me from the dark place
that sometimes holds me in.

I bought your book.
And I found a little release.