The Pen

When I was a baby,

I couldn’t hold a pen.

I couldn’t write my name,

So my parents did,

And over time

all those who were able,

Wrote my narrative for me

Without my seat at the table.

--

At the time, I thought

my silence was golden,

I embodied the lies

about me I was told then,

And with giant tears

welling up in my eyes

I sat still in the corner

While they storied my life.

--

The pen was passed around

from person to person

And they described how they saw me;

Criticisms in cursive.

--

By the time I was older

I began to read

All the things in this book;

The mystery of me.

--

Once I was able,

I began to write,

Black ink from my pen,

The words sharp as a knife

As I used the critic’s voice

To narrate my life.

--

I didn’t know then

another part of me existed,

Beyond the put downs

and presuppositions.

--

Until the day came

that my pen ran dry

And I lost my will

to read or to write.

--

At first it was lonely

Not to know my own story,

Not to fill endless pages

With my fall from glory.

--

Until one day…

I discovered new ink,

And for the very first time

I was able to think.

--

The silence was booming

With a beautiful prose

That boasted of love

Only my spirit had known.

--

There had been something hiding

In the blanks of old pages,

A new narrative forming

In the negative spaces.

--

I saw something brave,

Something bold,

Something new,

A character emerging

Out of words that were true.

--

My spirit started writing

In colors so vibrant

They danced to the beat

As I sat to revise it.

--

The story of me

Is no one else’s to write.

I get to be free

When the voice is mine.

--

So hear me now,

And hear me clearly,

My new pen is special

And I treasure it dearly.

--

And don’t even ask

If you can borrow it sometime,

This new ink only works

When the handwriting’s mine.