Her face is pale birch wood or potato flesh.

White, bland, boring.

 

Her mind is an explosion gone awry

Intensely hued, a million different paths stemming from a single thread of thought.

 

She travels day in day out

Cloaked in mystery, masked by pretense.

No one suspects because

she is a master of suppression, a quieter of

natural

immediate

impulsive

reactions.

 

She has a life no one knows about;

One in which screams and shouts batter her sanity

and piercing glares coerce her into silence.

 

Through the insults and rage that are thrown at her face

She speaks confidently for herself and in the name of justice-

-all in her head

 

Through the stinging words and unforgiving criticism,

She retorts and flings back some of her own-

- all in her head

 

Through the tirades and diatribes,

She defends herself and her conscious, her being, her reasoning without restraint, no matter what it takes-

But once again, all in her head.

 

She is quiet and solemn on the outside,

But the inside of her head is another world.

It’s filled with retorts and replies, built up resentment and hate, bitterness and longing for something more.

For her the danger lies not in her mouth or on her tongue

It lies elsewhere, somewhere in her cranium.

 

Yes, it is true that she is silenced and she is oppressed

But she has infinity in her head.