When I was five, I entered school not speaking the language spoken in my parents’ chosen home. As an adult I have no memories of that year and it took me a very long time to reconcile.

Don’t make waves, behave according to church and home, how dare you as a child have an opinion contrary to what is considered acceptable. Your voice doesn’t count. Teachers and parents are always right.

Until they’re not.

As a child, I used to weave magical tales in my head, never writing them down. Paper equaled risk and risk equaled punishment for daring to speak of fanciful worlds filled with voices.

I was twelve when I wrote my first story on paper and I was twelve when it was found. Nice girls don’t think like that and shouldn’t be wasting their time on fantasy. No one cares.

I stopped writing on paper. I squashed the voices and I tried to be what I was supposed to be.

Until I couldn’t.

I care.

I want.

I need.

I deserve.

I see.

I hear.

I speak.