Selective

It was a poison that started

In the pretty pastel paint

Coating the plastic bricks

Of a kindergarten classroom

That smelled like melting crayons,

Markers, and the teacher's cloying

Perfume that wove itself into my hair

Like strands of silver and gold.

.

The world was a danger and the words

That cut through it were knives.

They were cold, metal blades

Pressed against my throat

With the promise that they

Could make me bleed it all away.

In a snap then, I turned into something

That was detestable to the world

Of dangerous words and knives.

.

I don't mean it; I don't ever mean

The thick silence that pours from me

But I wonder if it would feel better

If I could mean it like someone else.

Like how they think I intend the quiet.

Would it feel better if the words

Didn't exist like plaque behind my teeth?

Would it feel better if the silence

Came through the gritted teeth

Of a stubborn smile?

.

Would it feel better if I spoke the silence

Obstinately, purposefully, cruelly

The way they are so sure I do?

Would the shackled thing weeping

In the center of my chest be free

If I could just be the bastard

They believe me to be?

What I wouldn't give to select

Something other than silence.