west seattle isn't like real seattle

it's a monthly ritual.
"poetry submission deadlines"
newsletters appear at the forefront in my inbox.
browse through them, read a bit about them, about the judges.
sometimes they seem fitting, most times, i cringe at the thought of even submitting another round.
"read the winning entry here:"
the winning entry. if it's a woman, it's about abuse, it's about mislaid plans, unrequited love, about feeling trapped, running away from the trap, it's native American, it's African American.
it's not me. i never seem to fit within your confines, guidelines.
i'm a working-class white girl of Mediterranean descent. i have an office job that supports me until i make it big on the scene.
I struggle to not let the joy in my heart reflect in the pools of blood that spatter onto these pages.
For anyone who glances at their shuffling feet, to come across the inky red splotch and see my joyful little heart on the pavement would be devastating.
People only know me by my small, coal-black heart and the soul i sold in another life.
I wonder if that deal still holds.