She, the beautful one, is twenty-two years young.
She has so much to say,
But fears she’ll come undone.
What if the words coming make no sense?
Maybe no one is listening.
Seems she only has fragmented thoughts,
Often not ever making it onto the page.
Just better to remain silenced, she thinks.
At 22, she should have this down,
Like walking to the mailbox.
In. Out. Open. Close. Repeat.
All that changes is the terrain.
She walks down the same steep, concrete stairs at 22 as when she was 14.
The former a chore for approval and excitement.
The latter, just a burden.
Nothing in that box but bills, bills mommy paid.
Little did she know her mother’s helpful intentions were chaining her down,
One leg at a time, one arm at a time.
Finally stealing her voice.
She is now paralyzed by the very person who gave her life.