Silence.

Silence is a wicked and wonderful thing.

I drift within the embrace of midnight silence. Like silk engulfing my thoughts in the magical slide of sheer delight.

Silence is a balm to my overly sensitive soul.

It’s also a poison dripping through my veins. Sliding and slithering, clawing it’s liquid talons over my heart.

My heart and soul are at war with each other over the purpose and drive of silence.

Is it sinister?

This depth of stark one worded replies, downcast eyes and a mind racing.

Is it gentle?

A lover of the dark, the outward quiet on pause.

It is rage. A blown out war torn ghetto within my own thoughts. My lips are sealed shut with a kiss and a laugh.

My screams are silenced. Confined to the inside of this cage.

This cage of my making. This cage of unmaking.

This cage of depression, anger, apathy, anxiety, panic and ptsd. Reinforced with old, agoraphobia and suicidal yearnings that steal what little breath I can pull through sealed lips.

The chains keeping this cage tethered and locked are comprised of pain, nausea, a faulty broken body and dashes and sprinkles of so. much. more.

I’m chained to the floor of my mind. My lips sealed. No hope for freedom.

Not until I lay my fingertips upon keyboard keys. Not until I grip the pencil and smell the lead and feel the scratch against paper.

With this I watch. I watch silence break in written broken words across a screen, across a page.

Write your way out. Write and write and write and bleed.

Find your freedom. Leave nothing else left for those chains, that cage, that fear filled ghetto to use to silence your words again.

Our words hold power. We must loosen our tongues and fight – our weapons – our words. Written.

Spoken.

xx BSG

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