Others' Sighs


I am eight
In a warm room of sun shiny windows,
Crawling high on a tower of foam blocks,
I touch the ceiling, sitting down.

He climbs up and sits close to me,
Bumping his head on the ceiling.

Speaking quietly
he touches me.

It feels good.

It was bad
And I knew it,
but I could not speak.

In those long moments
Something was stolen from me.

I learned, in time,
That he stole my voice, my vision and my power.

At thirteen

A dark room filled with books and shadows.
A child upstairs.
Noise from a tv is my company.
I feel oddly safe in his home their home.

The door opens
he surprises me and
Locks the door
Behind him.

I get between him and that blessed door.
We are a sandwich.

My voice is loud, my knee is louder.
Loud enough that I can open the door.

My feet are the wind
I find home,

I take back my voice
But it is too soft
No one really hears.


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