The Circle

A circle of young faces,
in metal folding chairs,
the youngest just eleven.

They all look to me
for answers I don't have.
All I can offer is my story,
and hope it makes them feel
less alone.

My name is Becky,
and I was raped.

Just like an AA meeting,
but with younger voices,
and eyes still learning
what's been taken.

So I tell my story,
and I watch their eyes.
Some look at the floor.
A few make eye contact.
Some look like they wish
to be somewhere else.
Anywhere else.

I scan the circle,
already knowing
some won't make it.

Some will die
by suicide or drugs.
Others will grow up to a life
of depression and rage
and hopelessness.

But still I plant the seeds,
and water them,
hoping just one will bloom
and grow and learn
to laugh again
like I did.