Shackled

There is a name I cannot speak,
an utterance, nomenclature of serial velocity
and violence.

The quicksand of my days eases and swallows,
still can't speak, then what is in a name? This name is
a cleaver.

It poisons the well and devours worlds,
a little name, a simple afterthought born from a night of lust and it
kills me.

When my stomach speaks it muffles the sound,
it can only speak, my organs are capable but I am just
a tragedy.

My seam now begins to show and my heart vomits,
my mouth, he who cannot speak cannot truly be
a man.

The bullets and arrows of a name.