My tongue is taped down. My body is vacant. I hide in the heels of my feet, bleached white at thought of releasing the chains. So I loosen the grip, cringing at the power sure to shatter the rest of the fetters. Expecting a roar of freedom and feeling yielded by the addition of a few liberating millimeters, I am disappointed. Years of neglect has turned my oxen tongue into a melted mess, filling the dimensions of whatever container it pours itself into. I dip my hand in the pool of my never-spoken words, letting the streams caress my fingers and tickle my palm. Ankle deep in myself, I resolve to collect every drop to reform the liquid into a shape I can proudly display at the front step of my character. And I will burst through my pores and my eyes and my mouth with fullness and purpose. I will swim in the space of my body, emerging glossed in pretty words that make me cry because they mean what I want them to mean instead of merely stuffing the silence.