Pinch my windpipe shut.
If air doesn't go in, sound doesn't come out.
It wouldn't even hurt; since your nails don't owe length and ferocity and prettiness to a supreme and besides,
I've always been a girl. I've always felt the knot in my throat, as if owning a voice is a
mass manufacturing defect.
To be honest, the knot does help. Ever since you've done your part in making me realise that it is a conventional woman thing to cook all day so that I hack my opinions out of myself and when I'm with you, I can listen. I don't think I'm allowed the little privileges either,
Like envy. Envying every word that comes out of your mouth, riddled with pride and plague; how can you be expected to identify a woman as a genius when you've never let her speak?
Balancing likelihood is my favourite game, so perhaps all of this is a favour.
If having the ability to generate sound is only a smoke signal, wearing a fluorescent sundress as a hare in the land of hyenas, my quiet is my fortress. My quiet is a sign around my neck that says OFF LIMITS so loud, it punctures your eardrums- but you still don't know what I sound like.
Perhaps, all the extra privileges I have, that I'm always instructed to make do with, are bartered with my identity as a sentient creature.
Perhaps, covering my skin in flowers is finally going to fool me into thinking I am one, too, gracing your vase, stooping, drooping,
making the air smell sweeter.