" When I try to speak
my throat is cut
and, it seems, by his hand
The sounds I make are prehuman, radical
the telephone is always
ripped-out
and he sleeps on
Yet always the tissue
grows over, white as silk
hardly a blemish
maybe a hieroglyph for scream
Child, no wonder you never wholly
trusted your keepers "
― Adrienne Rich , Diving Into the Wreck