From Pathemata, Or, The Story of My Mouth, by Maggie Nelson, which will be published this month by Wave Books.

In speech therapy we played a board game in which to advance you had
to say a tongue twister slowly and clearly.
The imperative to slow down, combined with my tongue’s whimpering
confusion each time it encountered the metal prick, produced in me a
fear and fantasy that one day my tongue would simply rip free of its
vassalage, like the Black Stallion cut loose to eat seaweed and run on
the beach with traumatized, freckled Alec.
Unspeared, it would produce such extraordinary speech that it wouldn’t
matter anymore if the multitude could understand me—I would echolocate,
and in time a tribe of like-tongued people—the humpers, the
thrusters—would advance over the summit, leather-clad, to recover me.