Pinch my windpipe shut.

Pinch my windpipe shut.  

If air doesn't go in, sound doesn't come out. 

It wouldn't even hurt; since your nails don't owe length and ferocity and prettiness to a supreme and besides, 

I've always been a girl. I've always felt the knot in my throat, as if owning a voice is a 

 mass manufacturing defect. 

To be honest, the knot does help. Ever since you've done your part in making me realise that it is a conventional woman thing to cook all day so that I hack my opinions out of myself and when I'm with you, I can listen. I don't think I'm allowed the little privileges either,  

Like envy. Envying every word that comes out of your mouth, riddled with pride and plague; how can you be expected to identify a woman as a genius when you've never let her speak? 

Balancing likelihood is my favourite game, so perhaps all of this is a favour. 

If having the ability to generate sound is only a smoke signal, wearing a fluorescent sundress as a hare in the land of hyenas, my quiet is my fortress. My quiet is a sign around my neck that says OFF LIMITS so loud, it punctures your eardrums- but you still don't know what I sound like. 

Perhaps, all the extra privileges I have, that I'm always instructed to make do with, are bartered with my identity as a sentient creature.  

Perhaps, covering my skin in flowers is finally going to fool me into thinking I am one, too, gracing your vase, stooping, drooping, 


 making the air smell sweeter. 


This poem is about: 
Our world


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