I have not written properly – or indeed done anything to fuel my creative life – for several months now. The reasons are many – and none. Times and situations have changed; I have too. Rather than a list of excuses, I offer this explanation:
I hacked out my tongue when I stepped through the door
I am mute; words bubble in my throat
Clammed down screams for your attention
but my laranyx has died,
I cannot form words, my language
cut down to shrugs and sighs
and desperate cries into pillows.
My silence colludes.
Somewhere inside is the tiniest spark
and some nights I creep out
from my prison bed
and think; and write
reclaim my voice under cover of night,
secret, furtive night-time imaginings.
The caged bird sings and I write
to show my children there’s more to life;
battle demons and dragons
with strength and compassion.
One day I know I’ll break free this constraint
tethered by my hand alone, no restraint.
But my mother was silenced and her mother too:
break the cycle, crack the silence,
pick up my pen, just write.