Speech, Right?

Your words fasten to my flesh by the neck.
They lead me down an old road,
 a trail of tears
 worn by years of tread.
Footprints desperate, facing the other direction
 we now walk.
Your words flow freely as the flooding stream
 that has broken its banks in the torrent.
 Your throat choking mine, I fall silent.
Swept along, you return me to that familiar shack
 where there is a whipping post out back.
This is where you leave me
 because I can take it from there.
There is where you leave me
 to go meditate upon a religion
 that blames the sufferer for his suffering.
Somehow I shamble from the post freshly stained
 because self-flagellation never leads to salvation.
Return to a dry town that preaches in daylight
 that all sin kept in bottles hidden
 should never be opened. Ever.
But in a sundown town,
 when the vessel makes a sound
 a bottle, now broken,
 brings back a flood of that unspoken.
 What starts with a poem, ends in a koan.
I desperately struggle to keep my contents from spilling,
 to keep all bottles inside.
 But cracked containers always leak.
Why are we weakest around the neck?