Sometimes I want to write a message. I want to write a message with the passion and vulgarity of the best rappers and spoken word artists. I gaze longingly as their flow frosts their tongues, and the words flake off around me like snow on Christmas. Not snow, but flakes reddened from the blood of the twisted and congealed tongues that have been kept voiceless so long. So that when they speak those drops of blood collect on the ground. Beauty in its drippings--its patterns, blood spattered from a crime scene. Evidence of injustice ignored. That cold chill of breath which creeps past lungs twisted by mouths to contort it into a lifetime worth of stories. That cold chill of breath that sat in the air one winter night as her cousin was shot. Blood splattered. Tongue tied. That cold chill of breath that recreates that night, hanging in the air--blood splattering like snow on Christmas. But that is not my story.