by Shabelle Paulino

I find comfort in words, but it’s taken time to get there. I created the walls step by step, the tip of this pen unleashing ink stored within my chest. Planted deep down are the words I have said and the words that I have yet to say I let them stay at the bottom of my throat and they spend another day left unsaid—I’m in power then. I’m frightened of abandon rooms and of people who listen but don’t hear, and when I speak, I can tell if the words have hit land or landed flat on the floor.
     I’m in power when these words never divulge but look tongue-tied. Can someone unbind the knot in my throat so my voice can be heard? So I can speak the words I’ve had from a young age and roll them from my tongue and plead that they won’t be snatched, caught by the same rope that binds my throat and detains me from where my foot points West but my voice remains silent.
     Writing is a double-edged sword. I’m not positive I can put it to use when it wants for a king’s hand and a crown I don’t own, so I esteem the words that haven’t met the page, dig into the ink and submerge the paper. But I can’t put ink to paper quick enough, and even if I spend the night writing until the ink runs out on the white paper, I can not put in ink everything I want to say.
     I grasp tight onto the words from my younger self. How can you understand emotion with no recollection of memory?
     The professor looks at each student and asks, “does anyone have anything else to say?”
     I do but my throat is tied.
     I find comfort in words but they wrestle to escape beyond my teeth. They’ve found ease in the ink that is spilled on the white blank page, but the fine print of my writing isn’t sufficient enough to unload the fluid from my lungs. I’ll take the ink to my grave, engraving on my stone, the words: To all the words I couldn’t speak.

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