If you would only listen,
I’d tell you of my first home up north;
the gun shots, the raging gangs, the screams
that haunt me each night.

If you would only listen,
I’d tell you what it’s like to live in silence,
waiting for the end
that never seems to come.

If you would only listen,
I’d let you hear my burdens
which cry out their agonies
then, now, and always.

When he stole our innocence
the voice in her head knew it was wrong,
but I was too young to understand
that it was more than a game.

When she grew up
I wasn’t there to push him off
when her little voice was too scared and broken
to scream for help.

If you’d only listen,
I’d tell you of my echoing night mares
that never go away
even when I forget to sleep.

If you’d only listen,
I’d tell you why I choke down unwanted meals
just to throw up, cough up, pour out,
my breakfast, lunch, and dinner;

because I’m not “skinny and beautiful”
like the models beg me to be,
and I’m a girl- so I “should be”
because that’s what the guys beg me to be.

If you’d only listen,
I’d tell you how many nights
I have stayed inaudible on the bathroom floor
Forgetting to cry, because the pain didn’t hurt.

I’d tell you of the therapists’ shrill concerns, the monotonous treatments,
the rattling pills, the classes and the resounding lectures and
I sure as hell could tell you
how much I didn’t care at all.

If you’d only listen,
I would tell you that sometimes
I really want to die.

But I am here.

If you’d only ask,
“Why?”
I’d tell you,
“So others know it will be okay.”

If you’d only ask,
“How do you know?”
I’d tell you,
“Here I am.

I am still here