Poem 1
Some stories don't begin with a scream.
Some begin with a quiet little girl who learns that silence is safer than questions.
This chapter is about the child I was before I knew how to explain fear. Before I understood that some memories could follow you for years. Before I had poems, I had silence. These are the pieces of that silence.
Before I Had Words
I learned to whisper Long before I learned to sing.
I learned that some doors Were meant to stay closed, Some questions Were never answered, And some tears Were better hidden Inside a pillow Than on a person's shoulder.
I was a child Who counted cracks in the ceiling Instead of sheep.
Who memorized footsteps Better than lullabies.
Who smiled in school pictures As if happiness Could be worn Like borrowed clothes.
No one noticed How heavy my backpack became, Filled with things No child should have carried.
I grew up believing That survival Was the same thing As living.
That if I stayed quiet enough, Small enough, Invisible enough, Maybe the world Would forget to hurt me.
But silence Has a strange way Of growing roots.
It wrapped itself Around my throat, Around my heart, Until even my own voice Sounded unfamiliar.
So I wrote.
Not because I knew What healing looked like.
But because paper Never asked me To prove That my pain existed.
Every poem Became another sentence I couldn't say aloud.
Every page Held another piece Of the little girl Who was still waiting For someone To notice She had been hurting All along.
