To the Girl Without a Voice

I have so much to say
but I don't know how to say it,
or maybe I'm afraid to say it
because it's inappropriate, not ladylike, taboo.
I'm not choking back words,
I'm choking on words and they're ready
to come out but I can't throw them up
because my soapbox is crumbling as we speak.

I am a turtle crossing the road
in the middle of rush hour traffic on 94
and panic is hitting me so hard I can't even
take the time to look both ways
before making my next move.
All I want to do is scream at the traffic to STOP
but instead I slink back into my shell and pray for the best.

Most days I am more victim than survivor
and I know that everyone knows it
by the way they are looking at me,
watching me breathe myself back into existence
as I try to tell myself I'm blending in
instead of sticking out like
the black sheep I wasn't supposed to be.

Momma taught me how to put on makeup
and daddy taught me that the man wears the pants
but I will not wear a skirt, I will not cover up,
and I will not bite my tongue until it bleeds.
I am standing up, not sitting down.