At times, it’s as if I am
entirely made of words. Words
I do not say, not even whisper,
but which sit against my skin or
cling tightly to my lips.
Pulling, pulling, pulling them open
To try to climb in and take hold of my voice.
I feel them, like a bone-freezing wind,
wrapping around my spine;
leaving little bruises,
Leaving me longing to dive
into a cold, black silence.
Where I know not,
and am unknown
to the dangers of my speech.