I do not know how to tell you
what I am feeling.

You ask, and
my tongue strangles itself.
It chokes itself silent.

Under my heart,
there is a wellspring
of things I wish I could
tell you, and my tongue
is the cork stoppering
them up. It is the sentinel
warden at the gate, letting
none of the prisoners through.

I wish I could drive a spile
under my ribs
and let it all pour out for you.