Sometimes i

Press an ear to the ceiling

and listen for a voice; the voice.

No one speaks.

Nothing changes.

I remain un-phased.

solitary

in a room of one's own,

but even Virginia herself could not verbalize

this oppression,

this pain.

Sometimes I'd love to

take apart my head,

to have my skull

cracked in two

like a succulent coconut-

split swiftly between its eyes-

held by someone else's hands,

Someone i can't see.

They tilt and pour out

the impurities.

Then, share its inner flesh-

the good pulp hidden beneath

its outer shell-

with anyone willing to eat it,

to be nourished by it.

But most times,

I let the feeling pass

and i fear the fresh copra i hold so dear

will rot without ever being tasted;

A fate far less frightening

than having exposed my tender innards

and watching them

be pulverized to mush.