My Words are a Whisper, My Words are a Howl

I bowed down at the altar of should and ought to and don't trust that dissembling soul of yours. I pressed my forehead hard against the prayer rug until the carpet fibers imprinted the skin there into the permanent creases born of a disembodied life lived for everyone else.

And then one day I feel something, silver-new and dissonant. It takes time, years, until I can name it for what it is – the hot-cold edge of a blade balanced on the back of my neck, ready to sever this half-life should I dare to shift against its pressures.

Perhaps you know the feeling, the ever leeching shallow wound of threat and exterior expectation, the sick and steely sharpness of good intentions against the tender flesh. Through these seemingly slight sufferings the soul can drain away and away and away.

The blade that was intended to keep me small, tame, safe – in the end it was, ironically, the blade itself that lit the fuse, unlocked the gate, cracked open this secretly fertile seed of a heart. . . .

Today I'm writing  over at Secret Rebel Club!

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