There are times when my voice won't come. I try and try, but it won't come. I'll be - there. You know? There. In council. There. Sitting or - not sitting, I suppose, in retrospect I may not have been sitting. I am not good at sitting, not for - well, not for long. I may have been sitting when it started, though. I don't remember.

Bear with me, please, please read on.

In council, at any rate, and I opened my mouth and my voice didn't come - it didn't come at all. It came like a nightingale protesting its violation: not at all.

I've talked since, so they say, so I've been told, but it's not my voice. My voice still isn't coming.

Hear me, please, hear me.

It swells up inside like a bubble, catches in my throat or in the curve of a ring. I can feel it. Living inside me like human pregnancy. I've thought of cutting myself open to break it free but my body won't obey me. Open. Spit it out. I -

Are you still reading?

I'm ready for cloaked doctors with rubber gloves reaching inside me to pull myself out. But I cannot say it. My voice disobedient.

Perhaps it's my hands that are - not obeying me. My voice speaks truth, my hands lie? I -

Burn this document when you've read it, if you've read this far.

Have you read this far?

Please hear me.