Mute

I ripped the cords from my throat,
presenting them as a gift 

in homage to the gods of the citadel;
burying my resentment
with the bones of my ancestors.

I ripped the nerves from my face,
offering an apathetic gaze
to the wraiths that would prey
on the bitterness of mute lamentation.

I ripped the veins from my arm,
showing the repressed tears
that flowed like a creek 
over my wrist, into a silver phial.

I dipped my quill in the phial
and let the shadows hear

the sound of my voice.