Elephants through the locked doors.

You're the thief
(of my voice, I mean),
stealing sounds and articulations
(not to mention my words).
My definitions of periods and pronouns
(and verbs, actions that no longer can)
have gone missing;
(you were the only one who knew where I hid the key);
how am I supposed to explain
(with no more spaces between strokes and dots on i's)
how much I feel?
(The machines have wires that are extensions of my veins).
My chest swells with each breath,
(a false hope littering the inside of my lungs)
and the disappointment has grown stale
(without words, I'm not able to taste).
I'm only able to sense the sting in your eyes -
(Is that pity?) Pity?
You can't pity me
(there's so much you haven't felt yet).
Maybe someday you'll hear your own voice.
(I hope you grow to hate it.)