Growing up, I was that kid in everyone’s friend group who didn’t ever really say much. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to talk, but because I never understood how to express what I was thinking verbally. This is something that caused extreme frustration for me and laer would cause some destructI've habits that were not easy to break. I’m 21-years-old and it still drives me crazy.

It wasn't until my junior year of high school that I was introduced to what would soon become my outlet for emotions and my platform to speak up for other. Junior year, Honors English at good ol' Chuck High, my teacher began to recite the poem Anabelle Lee by Edgar Allen Poe to my class. She had told us, on more than one occasion, that this poem was her favorite, but her passion for it wasn't clear until this moment. I don’t exactly remember what prompted her to recite it for us, but only because I was absolutely mesmerized by how well the words flowed when she spoke. I was also shocked by the emotion that was created by words on a sheet of paper. This was not the “cookie-cutter” poetry that I had been exposed to up until this point in my life. This was an expression of the soul! She doesn’t know this, but that was the moment that I decided I wanted to write poetry.

Writing poetry came so naturally for me. When I couldn’t express what I was feeling verbally to someone, all I had to do was write them a poem and everything was great again! At first, I wrote your run of the mill rhyming poems, but then I realized that I could write in free verse and my world changed! I would find inspiration in just about anything, but especially in the topics that other people were really scared to talk about.

When I realized that I liked talking about things that no one else really did, writing became less of an outlet and more of a way to help people understand and not be afraid to talk about the hard stuff. One of the things that most people shy away from addressing is the topic of Sexual Assault. In light of the Stanford Sexual Assault case, I feel like the following poem can offer insight into the internal aftermath caused by Sexual Assault or any other form of Trauma.

Phoenix

When the woman from the insurance agency finally decides that I have had a decent amount of time to process what has happened, she will ask me to make a list of thing that were lost in the fire. When this time arrives, I will still be coming to terms with the idea of having nothing left, but I will make the list for her anyway. Or, at least, I will try. It's hard to focus on the things you have lost when the question that keeps you up at night is, “how did the fire start in the first place.” I have retraced every step that led me to the moment where I found myself standing face to face with a body of flames, but I still can’t figure out how they managed to take over so quickly.

My friends try to comfort me the best way they know how. Tell me that the importance of that night does not lie in how it all started. All that matters is that it happened. They present facts to me so that I don’t have to think on my own right now. They say that it was awful and scary and painful. That it wasn't fair, but it happened. They say I can't go back and try to figure out which match acted as a catalyst for this disaster. Tell me that this is not my fault and that all that is left to do is to start to rebuild.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear someone say that “things just happen,” but what they don't understand is that this didn't just happen. Trust me, I know. I was there. I watched the pillars of smoke rise and cover me all at once while I lay frozen in my bed. Had to be pulled out by a rescue team because I had convince myself that I was not worth saving. I saw it all play out in front of me, yet I labeled myself powerless and told myself that there was no point in fighting in a battle that I was clearly destined to lose. These things do not just happen. They happen when someone ignores the smoke detectors blaring in the background. When someone confuses sparks and flares with warmth and light. Can’t see the difference between the glow from the fireplace and the blinding flames of rage. When someone. When someone. When I allowed the fire around me to tell me that the fire inside me was worthless.

When I am finally asked to make a list of the things that I lost in the fire, I will write a letter instead. I will explain that what I lost in the flames is not up for appraisal.Say that there is no amount of money that can make up for losing something so valuable. My home. My heart. My soul. My dignity. My smile. My happiness. My ability to trust anyone around me. Everything that made me who I am... was...Is gone.

When the woman from the insurance agency reads this, she will offer me her sympathy. To make things easier for her, I will accept her offers. I will start to rebuild from a foundation that does not look familiar.Come to realize that a house should never be placed upon eggshells. It will take time and work. Long nights and tears, but when I have finished the renovations, I will understand that the importance was never in how the fire started. It was awful and scary and painful. It was not fair. I am not the one at fault. It happened. I will always know that it happened and it will always remind me that I am broken. But from the breaking will come strength. It happened, but like a phoenix, I will be reborn into beauty from beneath the ashes.Like the smoke that once surrounded me, I will rise.

I firmly believe that we all have a purpose and a gift that we are meant to share with people. I'd like to think that my words are my gift and I have said gift so that I can share it with the world! My hope is that my poetry will reach one person who needs to hear my words. This poem is for anyone who has ever been victimized in any way. I want you to know that there are people out there who understand and will be there, even when talking is hard, and that there is hope, even when all hope seems lost.

Learning how to express myself through a safe and healthy outlet has truly changed my life. When I am feeling like the world is crashing around me, I turn to poetry. Life has a way of hitting you in the face with curveballs, but it is our job to figure out how to recover from them. To the few I have shown my poetry to, I have received nothing but positive feedback, and how relatable some of my pieces are. To me, this shows that my thoughts and emotions are real, and valid. I hope that it offers the same thing to others who can relate to my poems. This piece is meant to be a spoken word piece, and that might happen one day, but for now, having it down on paper (screen) is just fine with me. When I am one day performing my poetry on a stage somewhere, remember, you read it here first.