Silence Was My First Language

I failed language arts every year in high school.

Writing always felt too personal—

like words were stepping stones into my world,

and why should I let you in?

Maybe that’s my fault.

I wrote about suicide before the age of nine—

put my darkness on paper too early,

and adults mistook it for danger.

They didn’t see the kid behind it—

just the drawings,

and the fear of what they meant.

Maybe that’s my fault—

blood and ink have a problem detaching. Reality already seemed amusing enough—

plus the sins of reality cut sharper

than anything a story could imagine.

No need to make believe

when the truth was already violent enough.

Writing life lessons in story form—

either emotions explained,

or thoughts expressed—

all segments of a psyche

not yet willing to share.

Thoughts at a young age

too dark.

Mans beyond saving,

Hell-bound as a whole.

And my misery needed no company.

So I stayed silent.

For years.

Silent in effort—existing instead of living.

Silent out of fear—failure and rejection like ghosts in my throat.

Silent from the world,

from myself,

from God.

But now the light shows up in cracks I tried to ignore—

cracks I pretended weren’t spreading.

Maybe it’s because I have kids now,

and darkness stops feeling poetic

when somebody else might inherit it.

Maybe it’s realizing I can’t keep disappearing

and calling it survival.

Maybe it’s finally seeing myself clearly—

seeing the parts I buried,

the parts I blamed,

the parts I refused to resurrect.

I’m tired of hiding from my own reflection.

Tired of mistaking silence for safety.

Tired of carrying pain

like it’s proof of anything gained.

Now I’m writing to understand

the connections,

the confessions,

the failures,

the hardships—

all the weight I carried

just trying to exist.

I know I shouldn’t take it so serious…

however,

I think I perceive the power of words just a little different.

But maybe that’s just a matter of perception.