Stones in my neck

There are blackened stones

in my neck

just under my vocal cords.

They are alive—

pulsing, shining Stygian

from a flame

I might never see.

They were placed there by

my mother, my father,

teachers, lovers, friends—

every hand that taught me:

a woman's name

is silence.

So I stayed quiet for years

faithful to that name

covering my mouth each time I spoke

to hide the fact that

I spit flames.

But the older I get,

the harder it is

to tame the fire within me.

It flares on its own,

lashes from my mouth

like fireflies drunk

on honeydew and twilight.

It burns everything it touches,

flows down my throat

like molten lava—

filling my rib cage

with overwhelm, chaos

and sacred rage.

There are stones

in my neck

swelling, choking me

each time I obey my new name.

Pressing,

burning me alive.

I keep digging,

tearing my flesh

with charred fingers.

One by one

I pick them out:

Carmine diamonds

torn from jeweled crowns

still holding onto the carbon copies

of who they used to be

before the fire

the world lit inside me

nearly burned my truth away.

Hands full of bloody gemstones

I finally breathe again.

Flames, now dancing in my eyes—

as I watch the old world

burn away.