Locked Doors

The world is a bright room with locked doors,

where every breath is a heavy push

against the force of a body that says no.

The girl’s 12 year old soft skin glows with the warmth

of a mother’s kiss and a father’s steady hand,

yet she is a prisoner of love,

bound by the wires of her stubborn nerves.

But her mind is a hive, humming and fierce,

a place where thoughts gather like light.

She carries the weight of just a doctor’s shrug,

and the soft ache of being seen and not heard.

Her legs are anchors buried in the sand,

and her voice is a ghost that cannot haunt the air.

Her thumb finds the key, a steady click,

the machine wakes to speak her truth.

Its a bridge made of plastic and hope,

breaking her silence.

She greets the day, chooses the joke,

picks the bright dress with the yellow flower,

she sits at the table, eyes wide and clear,

simply asking for her glass of milk.

The machine finds the words she’s been searching for

and for a moment, the locked barriers swing wide.

She is here, she is seen, she is known,

keeping the key close, for all the doors to be opened.