Boghz. There is no English equivalent, the root in Persian. It is anger, grief, humiliation that lives on in the body long after it should have died. A revenant without cloak or fangs, a sexless fear that accumulates without release. Years shrivel yet it grows, everything left unsaid trapped in a pressure cooker neck. Muscle broiling, singing, shrinking.

All the times you do not cry. All the times you do not speak, every syllable collects. A book shredded on arrival but a tome nonetheless. You become a mute dictionary, a host to haunted language. How it beats at the base of your skull, as molars grind bitter coffee, a thousand pins forming the outline of a scream.

I am not blaming you. I am not, as I would be sentencing myself. I just wanted to tell you I have finally found a name for the electric cattleprod catscratch rebellion of tethered banshee wailing, for the salt in our eyes and the bees in our ears. It is the vernacular throwing itself against a cell door. Nesting where it falls. For all the times we filed ourselves away.

For all the times we believed biting our tongues would give peace to anyone but ourselves.

For all the times we forgot to fear the future
not the moment
not this moment.

---

Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. She’s a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can’t do by playing wheelchair rugby league. She writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she’s always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.