Eyes blink shut into protective blackness

as a steadying breath sputters out at my lips.

The blood pulses in my ears

a drum beat, a mind-clouding rhythm.

I search my mind for words

any and all coherency but there is none

just the haze and the drum.

Words try to form, a helpless stutter,

so I settle on a whisper so low no one can hear.

In a millisecond or perhaps an hour

the tremors begin to take hold,

the tips of my fingers tapping erratically

but before I can decide when the shivers began

my whole body seems to convulse

slightly and silently, just enough

so that I notice them and just enough

so that I may pray that no one else sees.

It is a gift of quiet, a curse of silence.

Only with a pen in my hand, it seems,

will words come to mind and will my message

fill me up, so I know what must be said,

even if it cannot actually be spoken.

Candor is my message, my meaning.

My writings tell the truth

some people cannot stand to hear,

but, to their luck, I cannot stand to say.

I have strength to say it through a pen,

but my hope is that they have strength

to read it with an open heart and mind.