the first picture taken of me sits in an altar by my bedside,

a reminder of everything I have been given from day one.

a baby, curls of onyx in my eyes,

nose-deep in a book.

 

words words words

they’ve consumed me from the start.

a child, waves of chestnut down my back,

with no outlet save the diaries i have filled with these

 

words words words.

 

they began to tell me i shouldn’t write,

that life was made for more than silly stories;

but how could i explain that those silly stories

were my life?

 

read everything i got my hands on,

wrote every thought that came to mind.

a preteen, frizzy locks at my shoulders,

was 12 and ready to take over the world with these

 

words words words.

 

i planned for an english major at 13,

and they laughed in my face,

so i grabbed another notebook,

and filled that one up too.

 

was offered three science courses,

took the easiest one i could.

a teen, raven ringlets at my neck,

forbidden from more than one english class:

 

“who could want these

words

words

words”

 

and now.

a haphazard adult

hair wild, dark, and free--like me.

i take the english courses i want

i write the poetry i want

i let my soul fall faster harder deeper for these

 

words words words

 

for if no one else does

on the face of this earth

i

with my nose in a book

and my curls in my face

will die for these

 

words

words

words

 

which saved me.