By the age of nine,

I knew this world was no place for me.

 

I learned that if a tree falls in a forrest and

someone is around to hear it,

it is their decision if the tree wants to be heard

despite the dismembered limbs,

in spite of the broken body,

using the voice she thought she was entitled. 

 

 

By the age of nine,

I knew the world had made no place for me.

 

I learned that when mommy stabs daddy,

you cannot tell your aunt what happened.

You never confess what you remember about

the day Ricky killed himself and his funeral.  

You may not use your voice to express 

the events that unfolded before your eyes.

You never vocalize what mommy or daddy

said to you,

to eachother

or to your siblings.

You may not speak about the drugs.

 

You will not tell anyone that you

forgot how to speak up

because you learned,

even if you cry,

even if you step between your role models,

even if you speak,

 

you never have a voice.

 

 

By the age of nine,

I knew this world would not accept my voice

 

so I wrote myself a letter.

 

My letter was a love poem

to the person who would teach me 

how to speak again.

 

My letter is still being written to this day

because poetry continues 

to provide the platform

for the voice I have to find every morning.

Poetry does not unravel the memories

tethered to my every thought;

it allows me to releive the pressure

by opening up.

 

Poetry does not leave;

it is the only outlet I will constantly find

my way out of silence in. 

 

 

By the age of sixteen,

I know this world has the ability to listen,

 

she just needs spoken word 

to hear me.