Pieces of Paper 10/30 (NaPoMo)

my baby book says,

my first word was” good,”

but trauma shut down my lips

I couldn’t speak-

ironically,

I was held back in third grade

but won a 4th grade spelling bee-

I fell in love with words,

I felt liberated-

but that’s when I was given my first diary-

words of hatred expounded

I  described everything until

my mother found it

and

threw it away,

she denied it’s truth-

but she couldn’t stop me-

I started writing on pieces of paper

and

hid them in my room-

under furniture,

in pockets of jeans,

beneath my bed-

any place where

she could find them-

I fought for a voice

in silence,

she never heard me speak,

fear choked me daily-

she was caught up in her land of make-believe

I was too young for reversal of roles

I was already an adult at 14-

In seventh grade,

during reading class,

we began reading,

Not without my Daugher

and

I started a journal,

and kept it safe in my locker at school-

I wrote for clemency,

for a right to life-

I was kidnapped in my own home

ignored, forgotten, abused,

words were my comfort

they offered solace-

It finally happened

in eighth grade,

December 11, 1991-

she found a note

and forced me to read it-

tears released themselves from prison-

words burst through my spirit like lava,

leveling a path to freedom-

I finally spoke what I had written a million times over-

but she still didn’t believe me-

It didn’t much matter,

I became a survivor-

and

continued to inscribe my story

one page at a time–

poetry month

is more like a celebration of my life

words linked together,

connecting chapters of my journey

reminding me,

to not give up,

to keep progressing,

aspiring,

writing,

and

*speaking…

(*eventually, at  an open mic)

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