Words,
Stories,
Books,
They held my childhood captive like a directive hand,
Holding me as I escaped,
Escaped a father’s in-your-face anger,
Escaped a mother’s fierceness
Escaped the yelling in the other room,
Ringing like sirens telling me to run off to my dreams,
To escape others emotions.

The stories whispered understanding to me,
Allowing me to relate and understand others,
Showing me not to run from others emotions.

Words allowed me to understand,
Understand mother’s grief-stricken face,
Why she cried through the pain,
Understand my best friends longing to be needed,
Understand father’s aggressiveness,
To understand people in general,
To understand my world and everything around me.

Yet could never understand myself,
Never understood my emotions,
My pains,
Why I am the way that I am.

Little did I know the books tried to help me,
The words cared too,
I never understood myself,
Except when I allowed the words to help,
To let them flow from my body,
Out of my eyes.

I felt the words,
Rushing through my finger tip,
Sprawling out in front of me,
Forming a smile as I understood,
Understood myself.

In using the words,
I found out how to understand myself.