Picking at Straws
I lost my voice.
It wasn’t a defined time, place or date.
It wasn’t by choice.
The smell of ash and soot filled the air.
Life resonated with the stench.
Disgusted I drew inward.
I felt the action happening before the execution.
A squeezing upon my neck
The thick, yet spidery sinews of my vocal cord snapped.
A croak and that was that.
My voice was inside my head. It hadn’t been there before, only thoughts. The echo was the hardest to deal with. Sound bouncing off the walls of my skull. Headaches were worth fractions compared to this, I endure it begrudgingly. An important tool for most of my life, I reasoned to let it stay for a while. This was back when I could utilize logic. Happy days. They were such happy days when I lived without this endless chatter. On and on and on. My speaking companion never stops. Yelling every insecurity, spoiling every furtive glance, crushing my thoughts down so they don’t have time to stand. Chatter, chatter, chatter. It doesn’t end.
Within me my voice screams.
It yearns with hundreds of lifetimes to escape.
Escape back into its place,
outside in the world.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
I live it everyday and night, endlessly.
For my sleep gained commentary.
It has no end in sight
that smell has not returned.
I wait for its foul bite.
