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July 31, 2002
My throat is a cage of tears. A hot coal is lodged in my esophagus. My chest is stuck in a vice and the screws turn with every word left unsaid. A thousand- pound weight hangs around my neck. Yellow jackets have constructed a hive in my stomach; sometimes they sting me for laughs. My hands are fists of anger. My eyes peer through webs of blood and rage.

Silence hangs like an eager noose. A single word uttered might land me in hell.

This is the precise grammar of repression. This is what happens when the I is silent.