2005.07.05
cotton, thunder, shame
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There is a name for what I am.
They dance around it, they whisper it in the dark, these voices. They are free to say, they yell, taunting me, and my own mouth is bound, sealed with cotton, thunder, shame.
Here is emptiness, here is weakness, here is fear.
And I know! I am not so tiny. These are things by day which I can ignore, and I do, though they burrow and dig and wait. They sit inside me until night comes, because here I am small, and they have many mouths.
My voice would be feared, should be — but they know I am still powerless to use it. It would unmake me as soon as it would them.
—but—
(I am getting stronger)
There is a name for what I am, but I cannot speak it.
Yet.