Poesy #15

I am talking broken-tongued.
A language I’ve never learned
lounges calmly in my throat,
winding like a noose,
splitting the skin in my mouth
until blood drips down my teeth,
scabbing stalactites,
my lips parted in fear.

I am trapped without words,
bars wrought of linguistic relativity
cramping me in, tangling up my limbs.
My fractured fingers pick up color
and run it down my hands,
touch it to paper
and nothing stains.

It’s a fucking joke –
it’s a voiceless, ineffective sham.
I am swimming in the mirror again,
I am clawing up the shining panes
and slamming the silver walls.

My breath stains the windows
and I squirm and I writhe
and I can’t crawl between the pages again
and there are my guts,
there is my belly,
my hair and my nails.

Where is the safety I was promised–
or did I give that up
when I smashed the bottle of my heart
on your departing ship.

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