The Words I Spit
inside my throat,
lies this pile of words nauseating me,
taught to feel like a mechanical conveyer belt,
I fail to find the vocabulary to describe this privilege,
but I still try to learn,
and find this translation,
because I stand between two worlds,
one where this nausea is a flood about to reach your shores,
and the other crafted with metal in its core,
waiting to be crafted into more,
no metaphors or similes,
because that not what they’re taught,
here lies only transparency.
I live off the mountains my parents have lifted,
yet,
there’s a civilization on top,
where people don’t know their own prerogative,
assuming its path born for the masses,
ignoring the people underneath.
inside this part of my throat,
there's carved in responsibilities,
of privilege,
and words of confusion,
hoping to figure out,
Get Maddi Morton’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
something,
anything,
just one thing that no other could,
I know I am lucky,
yet the pressure caves in on me.
because in my veins,
I feel a liquid soaking through into my blood,
seeping like the poison that has taken my loved ones,
maybe it’s ambition,
or the illusion of choice,
but still for me I know it’s always been a privilege.
in the words I cannot express,
I have a pride,
one that burns with every term I learn,
and word I spit,
because engraved into my throat,
are lifetimes of people,
who never got the warrant to be anything more than stability.
so yes I will spit these words that are held in the bottom of where you fear,
because I know the authority they hold,
once you learn the meaning,
not a meaning that was learned because of birthright,
but one built on sacrifice.
By,
Madison Morton
