Anatomy of the Unspoken

Anger is a coal

lodged beneath my sternum,

radiating heat upward

until my throat burns

with swallowed flames.

.

Love settles like mercury

in my lower belly,

liquid and heavy,

shifting when I walk,

pulling me off balance.

.

Guilt crystallizes

along my spine,

sharp geometric pain

that catches when I bend.

Each vertebra storing the

things I should have said.

.

Fear moves like ice water

through my veins,

starting at my wrists,

traveling inward

until my heart becomes

an arctic chamber

where nothing grows.

.

The secret

lives as a tumor

behind my left shoulder blade,

dense, dark matter

that aches when it rains,

and shifts when I breathe.

.

Shame pools in my stomach,

warm and acidic,

dissolving the edges

of whatever I try to eat,

leaving me hollow

but somehow heavier,

a vessel full of emptiness.

.

But desire,

desire is helium

trapped in my chest cavity,

making me lightheaded,

making my voice climb

higher than intended,

threatening to lift me

clean off the ground

if I'm not careful

about what I say.

.

Watch how my body becomes

an ecosystem of the unsaid.

Tendons tight as piano wire

from holding back,

jaw locked like a safe

with a combination

I've forgotten,

shoulders curved inward

as if to protect

the contraband heart.

.

And when I finally speak?

.

The sudden lightness

nearly knocks me over.

My spine straightens.

The mercury drains.

The coal burns to ash

and blows away.

.

For a moment,

I remember

what it feels like

to inhabit a body

built for honesty.

Hollow bones,

clear blood,

a heart with room enough

for everything

it was meant to hold.