The house, dark--locked doors

behind which secrets floated.

My emotions were like
         poison

to me and all others.

 

Weak, debased,

I turned to a place

where no one judged;

         my words were my own.

I had a voice.

 

Building, stacking,
I buried the words beneath

miles and miles

of encrypted files

my family couldn't hope to reach:

and there I told,

                 tales of darkness

        of suicide

of hopelessness

 

But I am here today

to look back and say

"I made it,

       and, cheesy as it sounds,

poetry helped

a whole damn lot."