I was an infant sounding out
vowels on labels fixated with
complexions not hearts.
Sermons spoken spilled salt

on wounds shaped from moments
when the sword was mightier than the pen.
I was mute as black blood
streamed letters the mature read

and dismissed as chicken scratch.
Pleas to unlock the chains noosed
around my heart, never heard,
until my ears opened to self acceptance—

the song hearts dance to without shame,
the vernacular spoken without stutter.
The key frees my soul from shackles
and dissolves the branded lesions borne.

They were just words.