At a young age they claimed me. And I was forever gone. Roaming the bookshelves in libraries. Secreting away books too big and too long for me. I read them anyway.
I could learn anything, go anywhere, be anyone. Still I remained me. The same and yet a little different with every word I took in. Hungering and thirsting, more, more, more! No book big enough.
Until one day I discovered I too had words in me. And all the words I took in came pouring back out. The same, but different. In the coming of my own age I could tell my story to the spaces on my page. No judgment, no remorse, only release.
A secret space reserved for me. Freed to fly on wings of speech I said all the things I never could out loud.