Born From Air And Ache

My voice did not arrive soft,

It cracked through silence like bone through dry ground,

trembling,

unsure,

a slow crescendo rising from all I swallowed just to survive.

My voice,

it was never handed to me;

I unearthed it beneath no’s I couldn’t say, from nights I slept next to shame.

My voice carried the weight of unshed cries, and the

echoes of every time I bit my tongue to keep the room calm.

Each syllable I speak now was first a bruise.

Each word, a wound I dared to name.

But still, my voice rose,

born from breath and the ache of staying silent too long.

Now it breaks through like morning,

not always loud, but always mine.

I do not ask if it’s beautiful,

only that it remains true.

Because this voice,

this voice was earned.