My voice box has been cut out
and laid bare and bloody upon a table.
My tongue has been severed
and tucked away in a drawer,
a slab of hidden whispers.
In their shadows,
a new voice box has been installed,
a new tongue fitted in the empty hole.
They feel stronger.
Louder.
Different.
The voice box is loud enough to scream into the ocean
and have twisted,
unknown creatures at the bottom shudder at the sound,
the tongue is strong enough to slap and caress,
to climb a mountain and run a race,
with nothing but words to mark it's trail.
The old ones will sometimes try a feeble wail,
a shake of the drawer,
ghosts that I will welcome with open arms,
but the new ones are a gift.
And I will treasure them.