Unlocked—
Come closer, young one. 
What are you holding so very tightly?

I struggle to answer,
fists are clenched,
jaw sore from biting my words, not allowing a reply. 
I look through blurry eyes, cast towards the ground. 
There is loud silence.
What have I held in for so long, 
for reasons that were the names of people, 
none of them mine?

When you believe being silent will be good for others,
you want to help. 
Nothing is lost or missed, if it never was.

I slowly reach for my other hand, 
holding as if in prayer.
Hope is born and released,
into a world
that will not welcome her.

She has cried both openly and deeply.
She has listened to all the questions, accusations, 
challenging her very existence. 
When she wrote, as a child,
Locking diary,
her words were used against her.
Believing
she had betrayed herself,
she never wrote again.

Little one, 
take my hand.
You are heard, 
you are seen, 
you are free.
I am you, you are me.

Grasping, 
we know, 
the time has come.
Lifting the pen, 
leaning over lonely paper, 
as our hand moves the words from our heart, 
bypassing audible cadence, 
again, proof against us.

The wish of clasped hands is evident.
We can write to breathe.
Don’t let go. 

We have a long road together.