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[do you have a suggestion?]
my brother pauses, turning to me;
"because you're full of great suggestions,
but you always say them too late."
he means no harm by it,
yet how do i put a name to this silence?
shutting up in compliance?
—i shoved cotton down my throat,
now i can't breathe—
when did the echo become louder than the scream?
maybe it was vegas, twenty-nineteen.
maybe I was never allowed to dream.
how do i speak my voice back into existence then,
when i can no longer remember its sound?
whispers, snuffed out so many times i've lost count.
Copyright © 2022 Aranza V. Soto Torres. All rights reserved.
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