I have got a sore throat.
So many words have soared past my painted lips,
but they never click in the ears and minds of those who bind me in their bastard bounds,
rounding on me with furious, famished eyes,
and I stand before them,
saying the same things,
screaming and shouting,
about my right to exist without their insistence on extracting my will to live with their torment.
I cannot plead anymore for them to picture me with my humanity intact.
I’ve got nothing left.