A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Today you make a point of speaking my name
as your words wish me peace, so there can be no doubt
of the intended recipient. It’s meant to be a blessing, 
but as I mask waves of nausea and pretend I can still
breathe, my name falling from your lips feels more a curse.
And there’s the smirk I’ve come to hate, performative smugness.
If you truly willed me peace, you’d not have stolen it from me
in the first place, or at least now you’d hand me back 
the pieces you still hold.  You’d not be standing here
in my safe haven, still coercive after all these years.
Will my consent ever feature in your consideration?