When I was very young I started therapy,
I did not know how to talk, how to communicate.
So every Tuesday and Thursday at three,
I would sit in front of a woman with a closed off face and wonder what she thinks.
As soon as I was old enough to tell them I did not want to go back I did,
Still, I had not learned to speak.
I could say every word in the English language and yet I could not,
For my life, string them together in a way that would help them understand.
How did I feel? I could not speak.
Broken, I should have said, afraid.
I got worse instead of better and they would constantly say,
What is wrong with you? I don't understand!
Still I could not speak.
Depression crept up and morphed it's ugly face,
Into everything that I knew I could not say and still... I could not speak.
I got older and grew to understand I may never be able to say out loud,
All of the things that they would not understand.
They could not know how it felt to have your body be used and be helpless to stop it,
Or to be afraid to take a shower for the things you may remember, they could not.
And so I took my words to paper, a simple rhyme at first,
That took my feeling and, finally! It is into words.
I feel free! Free at last! And still I did not speak.