A forced whisper sounds like steel on glass: automatic shame. Nobody’s heard my voice in days; do I exist?
A forced hoarseness escapes as the pressure’s built up in my
heart, throat head; I don’t know what I’m going to say or what I just said: automatic
hot embarrassment—irrational, nonsensical, unplanned.
Our real feelings aren’t planned, but I’ve got a feeling
nobody could stand the squealing, tense off-pitch sound of my voice and that’s
(part of the reason) why nobody’s here.
I once screamed too much for my Dear.
I once screamed too much for my own ears
after a life of repressed silence, recipient of narcissistic
violence and attempts to control, condemn, and manipulate me;
my voice bears the scars of the fears that reticulate me.
They’re inside my throat which is itchy & hoarse.
They’re deep in my heart which is clutched & coarse.
I keep coughing,
clearing the phlegm from my throat but it’s never enough to dismantle the coat
of arms on my locked down voice box.
There’s no one around to hear when she talks
so she doesn’t exist:
like wind in a decrepit old house creaks, so does the ghost
of her shriek.
