Talk softly, child.

You are a girl, yes?

What’s all this rambunctiousness for?

 

So she learns to discipline her

voice- speaking less, speaking soft,

only when she is spoken to.

Never asking aggressive questions

(never a why-why girl, because those

are such a pain) alternating between silence

and softness; each deafening her ear.

 

Speak up, girl.

What are you afraid of?

I’m not going to bite you, no.

 

So her voice is stuck in her

throat, she is gulping,

Choking on unwieldy

emotions. Shut tight like

a clam on an ocean bed.

Her voice is caught in

(the only-man’s-land) between

Her heart and the world.

 

Oh Jesus, woman.

Tell me if you like this.

I am not a mind reader, am I?

 

So she clears her throat, but

everything else remains

foggy as ever. Through trained

sultry whispers and sexy groans,

she hunts like a madwoman

galloping across a parched desert-

for her gasp, her sigh, her pleasure.

Sick of silence, she starts to say:

No. Not like this. (I don’t like it like this.)

 

What is with your kind?

Never satisfied, are you?

So much talking.

 

So her voice is gone.

Whatever comes out is not hers.

It is a bloody reminder of a

different kind of violence. Her cries (in

a forgotten voice) are inside,

dripping with the desperation

she is not allowed to feel.

 

Sing for me.

Speak to me.

Moan for me.

 

Obeying on auto-pilot.

Her voice is just one more thing

She signed over.

 

What do you feel?

 

She cannot tell.

Not inside.

Not outside.


Featured Image Credit: Pinterest

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