When I Was Four

When I was four,

My tongue is tied as I confide,

mumbling words like an avalanche,

unable to make my stance.

When I was four,

I was not at my peak, unable to retreat.

The world is unclear; it disappeared,

confused and lost, not counting the cost.

When I was four,

slippery syllables stammering, suffocating,

sentences shattered, soundless, strangled.

The tat was not a cat,

My poon is unable to scoop the spoon.

When I was four,

unable to organize my sound,

even though it was my renown,

drowning in my speech, unable to preach.

When I was four,

isolation felt safer,

silence my shield,

My voice is left in hiding.

When I was four,

Therapy turned speech into games,

patterns repeated, drills on the tongue,

slowly stitching sound into sense.

When I was thirty-four,

I have much to say.

This poem is a vessel of clay,

I’m here to stay — no longer misunderstood.

Out of the silence,

out of the shadows,

My voice has become my song, now that I am strong