A Love Letter to My Voice!

As a child, I found solace in poetry—

the only outlet that let me speak freely, yet secretly.

See, the things I was battling I couldn't vocally repeat— but even as a child, I knew that I needed some form of release.

Initially— I found comfort in the pages of my diaries, but even journaling began to feel— incomplete.

There's no response, so there's no understanding, advice, or way out.

It was just another entry I couldn't speak about.

Then came poetry— a delicate form of expression—

where my voice could be free or concealed,

depending on who was listening to my confessions.

So yes, I found strength in ambiguity—

a craft of saying one thing while meaning another.

What can I say? I was trying to reclaim my voice through the words that I could twist without blowing my cover.

I had to embrace the power in my secrets and in the things I left unsaid.

Steadily creating distance, so it's easy for you to be misled.

Soon enough, I had mastered the art of restraint—and how to hide meanings in the spaces between the lines while still being vulnerable yet untouchable.

But eventually, the metaphors weren't enough.

I craved clarity over cleverness and truth over technique.

I realized freedom wouldn't come from the lines I bent to protect myself,

but from the ones I spoke openly.

It was time for the truth— not for validation but liberation.

To finally name what I had buried deep within the shadows of what was stolen from me.

Violations I never asked for or burdens I shouldn't have had to carry.

My childhood felt more like survival than something legendary.

But telling the truth didn't bring peace right away.

Nor was it sunshine and rainbows— it was constantly defending the silence that made me betray my own say.

But even after all the disappointments from the truths I told, I kept writing— through teenage heartbreaks and fleeting promises that were exposed.

I even wrote through the confusion of loving boys and girls

who never truly loved me back. But he— he changed the beat.

Shifted the tempo and flipped the track.

He wasn't gentle—he was the street, and I was the geek.

He spoke in lessons laced with fire while I still believed in something higher.

He didn't just break my heart— he broke my softness.

Turned my open hands into fists.

Taught me how to bite back, not break down.

How to survive, not surrender.

But he didn't do it gracefully— he carved strength into me with sharp edges, leaving wounds disguised as wisdom that I'll always remember.

That's when Brianna began to fade because she was too tender,

for a world that kept demanding armor.

So, Redd emerged—feisty, sharp, and forged like a monster.

She protected me through heartache, grief, college, kids, and pursuing my dreams. She gave me the push and will to succeed.

For years, I hid behind Redd, A name that held my power but not my authentic voice. She was my defense mechanism—built from pain, not choice.

However, Redd wasn't just a shield— She was the story the pain revealed.

A survival instinct made flesh and bone, but Brianna…

she was my heart, the part I disowned.

Now, I'm learning to love her, slow and true, to honor the girl I once outgrew.

But healing brought me back to something I always knew—

The part of me that writes her way through.

So I returned to you—my sacred place of vulnerability,

A soft surrender wrapped in rhythm and sensibility.

Where pain finds purpose, scars speak freely,

and the voice I buried comes back to greet me.

By: Brianna Spurlock

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