Riot in My Throat

Riot in My Throat (Slam Poetry Version)

 

You are the snarl in my ribs, the crackle before

the storm,

the match striking—no, the match screaming itself

alive in the dark.

 

They call you too much—

too loud—

too everything—

Press hush against my tongue like a rusted coin.

Expect me to swallow.

Expect me to sit pretty, sit quiet, sit still—

As if I could.

 

But you—

you are the tremor in my chest,

the splinter in silence,

the anthem in my blood.

 

Fists curled.

Breath held.

The moment—

right before the glass shatters.

 

They say quiet is a virtue—

but you laugh.

Sharp-edged. Wildfire-born.

You split the dark open,

and you refuse—

refuse—

to dim.

 

I try to keep you caged,

to smooth you down, fold you neat,

make you small enough to fit in their hands.

 

But you—

you are rising.

A pulse in my throat.

A drum in my bones.

 

Let them call it noise.

Let them call it chaos.

 

You and I both know—

this is the sound of something breaking free.

 

By Czarina Sachi