A Roar Graced in Words

I carry my scars in the back
of my throat. From childhood,
and the millions of years which
bequeathed it.

And once in awhile I let them be
heard—the agonies of my predecessors,
along with my own. Our suffering
united. Our anger as one.

I carry my scars in the back
of my throat. So they are never
forgotten, or hidden in shame.
My voice is their voice—when I speak,
they are heard.

So if my voice sounds broken,
or raspy, or raw,
you are hearing my scars.
A roar graced in words.

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