The first language I learned
was not English
was not Spanish, or French, or Russian
No, the language that built my bones

was made of voices louder than mine
of doors slamming shut, locking me in
(or them out)
of tears that meant nothing
of adrenaline and terror
of broken promises and twisted truths

The first language I ever learned
was not love
was not care, nor kindness, nor gentility
No, the language that echoed most

was made of broken crockery
of creative curses and swears
of soap that tasted of volcanoes
of noodles with crunchy peanut butter
and teriyaki sauce
of learning not to flinch

The first language I ever learned
was not with words
was not with grammar, or syntax, or rules
No, the language I learned first

was anger