The truth will set… a metal trap on your foot

I try to breathe quietly
Keep my breath, faint
As a ghost clinging to such walls
That contain secrets.
I resound quite conspicuously
The things that ail me
Carry my ancestors open sores
Along with their dreams
Some tangible
Some not.
I lay them down at the feet of those
Who must choose to stoop
So we can both do this, together
Looking over things of the past
Eye to eye
With our mouths twisted
How uncomfortable it is to hunch
But one must hunch to pick others up
I concave my chest,  cat – like
Ready to hurl back
For I show those the things that ail me
Aware
They too could do the same
It is a choice
To wound openly
Take the sores and revisit them
Only so they will not close
Heal
I shout in the dark
Bewildered,
Scratching with my claws retracted
I peel paint off walls
Tear up entire furniture
Only to wrestle with the outcome.
I hunch again
To show my trinkets and dignity
I say: “come here and look”
“Look upon this with your own eyes, trace it with your own fingers, our hurt.”
I place the sack over one shoulder,
And smile between my teeth,
That pain is a visitor
Who comes at all hours
Yet some claim to have not seen the frosty breath
Leaving us like smoke.

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