Finding Words

Ten years old, insomniac, major depressive, anxious. My parents can't deal with me; My teachers won't put up with it; My friends think that I am crazy; My brothers are afraid. I find a folder in her closet, red, top shelf, hidden, full of papers. My mother's teenage words scrawled across pages. Poems about cars, being blonde and young. I go into my own closet. My eyes are red and swollen from months of endless crying. I begin to write. I begin to pour out what it is that I could never say. I am alive today.