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.