I struggle to voice my thoughts,
each consonant lost somewhere;
stuck between my lips and throat,
each intended syllable lies dormant
and waiting.

Even when I pass the threshold of speech
all that comes out is a jumble of pleasantries
constructed by my forefathers,
their forefathers
and those before them.

For now, I am bound to my pen,
the inky tears have stained my skin
and I am still standing.
The thick fog which obscures my voicebox
can't obstruct the flow in which my thoughts spill
violently onto the page.

They can't know,
I won't let them know.
The lilies which blossom,
emerging from the dark,
murky waters of my heart
are to be culled.
Each sinful petal burned,
the crisp ashes blown into the wind,
never to be seen again.

They wouldn't understand
the pulsing pain that drives me,
it drums in my ears constantly
silencing each rotten thought
before they bloom into something more:
something unsightly.

I used to hold your hand,
remember?
I was drawn to your comfort,
wrapping my cold fingers
around your blazing warmth.

You thawed my icy chest,
cradling the soft wick within
with such tentative love.
I was sure it would re-light.
Desperately so.

Assured by our covenant,
I waited for the embers
and even now I lie dormant
awaiting your flame
in the ashes.