As a child, I decided not to succumb to the pain that my tormentors inflicted on me; I decided not to give them the satisfaction of showing them that I felt pain, and so I decided not to cry; stoic was my act of defiance.
The moat to their castle, the bridge I dare not cross, for I would surely be lost in their domain. I had to resist at all costs: my stand, my resistance, my act of defiance.
Instead, I cried inside.
So silently was the rain that fell, into which I drowned my sorrows.
Unbeknownst to me, the floods of tears built up inside of me every day and night of my adult life.
Mucus ran down the walls of my sinuses, stagnant, and so pus accreted.
I built a dam; distant were my expressions — as I suppressed the hurt.
Alas, the pain had to be released.
The rust corroded, the pressure was too much for the body to contain. So the dam burst, and the hurt rushed out in a torrent.
The pain was unrelenting.
My muscles ached, my back broke, the blood rushed through my brain, I collapsed, and the ground trembled beneath me.
My silenced voice was made material.
