The Things That Strangle
A pen quivering above a page,
a thought drips hesitantly, like sweat
in the heat of fear.
Water does not quench this,
the dry around my voice that
stops my sound
before it reaches the world.
When I reach into the heart of me,
my words lay covered
under a quilt of words
others have used to describe me,
a patchwork identity:
stupid, worthless,
asexual.
In the space between creativity
and the paper that holds my words,
there is a wall of voices,
judging – my mother
laughing at the angst
of a tortured attempt to
understand sexuality,
pretty girls noting
every flaw I’ve ever hid
deciphering my secrets
on the bathroom walls –
these are the things that
constrict my throat,
stop my voice.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
