I got another rejection letter
this morning
while eating generic corn flakes
out of a plastic mixing bowl
because somewhere along the line
I became the kind of man
who owns three ashtrays
but no proper dishes.
The editor said my work
“didn’t align with their current vision,”
which is polite industry language for:
we prefer poems
that don’t smell faintly
like motel coffee and emotional damage.
Still—
I folded the letter carefully.
That’s the strange part.
I used to tear them apart,
cuss at the ceiling fan,
drink whiskey like I was trying
to cauterize disappointment.
Now I stack rejections
inside an old cigar box
like baseball cards
of failed versions of myself.
One from Iowa.
One from Oregon.
One from a magazine
run by a woman named Claire
who probably owns twelve sweaters
and says things like
“holding space for art.”
And somehow
they comfort me.
Because every rejection means
for one brief moment
someone stopped their busy little life
to sit alone with my madness.
Some exhausted editor
in a cramped apartment
read my words while microwaving soup
or ignoring a failing marriage
or pretending not to hate poetry anymore.
Maybe they sighed.
Maybe they laughed once.
Maybe one line followed them
into the bathroom mirror afterward.
That counts for something.
At fifty-something rejections deep
you start realizing acceptance
isn’t publication.
Acceptance is survival.
Acceptance is still writing poems
after the world politely tells you
no thank you
over and over again
in twelve-point Times New Roman.
And honestly,
these days,
the rejection emails feel warmer
than most people do.
Leon Drake's work has appeared in Spill The Words Press, Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, S.A.V.A. Press and The Crossroads Magazine.
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