A fatal strangling

It sits heavily in the crease of my throat, so tightly I could swear it was a part of my anatomy. I don't remember a time it was not there. I call it the 'crisp', a silly name really but that's precisely the sensation. A crisp stuck, each edge trapped in the ridges of my oesophagus. My emotions get the best of me provoking it to solidify, clenching my cries in its grasp and holding fast until the muffled whimpering is quiet and still. It constricts my every cry, every breath, every word. My eyes blinding me with my own emotions, it grapples with its mute prey.

The struggle itself is displayed, even to my best attempts, clearly on my face as it contorts and stiffens with the feeling. Spectators becoming uneasy with my internal toil. Crisp, your very existence I hate with every fibre of my being. You stand, a blockage which behind was once so much uncontrollable sorrow, grief and anger but without release has decomposed only into regret and pain. Causing nothing but internal sores and scarring. These things I may never be able to release. All of my inaction and remorse stems from you, you and your evil protection. I am aware of why you were once there, to stop me piling my burdens on others shoulders. To shield my inner thoughts from the harsh critiques of family, friends and lovers.

My readings of Medusa remind me of us: her past filled with hardships she was gifted the power to protect herself disguised as punishment but in the end she was yet again used. I wonder, if my head too was to be taken, what product of my hardships and inner demons would you be? Arising fully formed and dressed in armour. Would you be a familiar embodiment of my own wars or would be the intimately recognisable impression of my mirror image?