Learning to Rise

When I was 3, I had so much to say

And a talent for saying it

My mom used to worry, because I’d approach strangers

And spill out my story

“Hi, I’m Stacy, and I’m 3 years old,

I live at…” and that’s when she’d pull me away

By the time I was 8

I read, wrote, and spoke at a 10^th grade level

Gifted, they said

Words only work if you use them

Luckily, I still knew how

And then I was 12, and my world was changing

But I still inhaled hope like oxygen

And clung to the beauty of words

I wish I could say I’d learned since age 3

But I still talked too much to people I didn’t know

When I was 14, I talked to the wrong stranger

It turns out that pointing to flaws in your armor

Is like giving a map to a hostile invader

And he took such careful notes, committing my weak points to memory

Once he left, I wasn’t a child anymore, but not by my choosing

And there were no words for what he had done

So then I was 15,

And I was utterly, completely silent

I was a ghost, slipping away

I opened my mouth to speak, to lift the weight off of my soul

Nothing came out

School was a haze, but a few words cut through:

“Still, like dust, I rise”

And I remembered that the souls who struggle

Can sear words, like fire, onto paper,

Even when our voices fail

And I picked up a pen

And 6 years later, I am 21

Last month, I walked across a graduation stage

And I still write the things I cannot say,

Because poetry runs counter to hopeless silence,

It helps me use my voice again

On my wall is a picture of me in my gown

Written on my cap are the words that give me hope:

“Still, like dust, I rise.”