--.--.99

Rage is the humiliation swallowed and held to swell and rot by a clamped esophagus. To feel this emotion that is weightless as the air develop mass and expand is to acknowledge again - once again - the absence of voice. Cannot say. The oppressor imposes a foreign tongue into the body and after some years the body does not know its own sounds, only knows that that there is no voice that rattles in the neck without effort, with precision. Lacking truth. Swallowing truth whole like a voracious snake, slithering away to the dark corners to squirm in digestion. But it pushes. Want to vomit it back onto them all...but eating words is second nature and it was irretrievable the very moment you decided to grow a tiny part of yourself out of sight. Now this tumor that consumes the belly festers hatred. The voice, it says not a thing directed by conscious, but from fear: It is running ahead so that the brain learns of its craziness only after hearing, at the same time as everyone else, what has been uttered. Meanwhile, the True Word is forced down the pipes into the bloodstream, vibrating out its contents at shaky fingertips. With every silence there is defeat, I learned. But why is some silence so powerful? Why is it that the tight lips and unforgiving eyes are more direct than any insulting string of words? There are no witnesses: Eyes speak to one only, in a narrow channel of subtle belittlement. No witnesses: Did you see that? Did you feel it too? Outside the tunnel, feel nothing, see nothing: You are making it up again. What is wrong with you? You are a [litany of imperfection]. Your perceptions are not accurate; what you felt with your entire being did not occur. What you spoke was not true...and when the voice wants to emerge, you must swallow and let your flesh absorb it. (I am not lost to this, I am not - I still see, I see it clearly and trust it...in silence.)

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