They bubble beneath my tongue,
cementing it in place,
My teeth a cage,
my lips a shuttered gate.

They collect there,
a tumultuous whirlpool,
that muffles all sound,
arresting my ability to speak.

These words, cannot be spoken.

Once in the air -
They become heavy,
and purposeful.
They are without control,
saying things I may not know.
Giving things away -
My secrets, my pains, my sorrows
My joys, my strange peculiarities...

But You...

Your tongue -
an unfurling key,
seeks to be pressed against my own,
drawing these words out.
A nectar of thoughts,
subtle and unspoken,
bursting upon contact.

Can you hear what I am thinking?
Are my words so loud,
that I need not speak at all?

I cannot fathom,
that anyone should hear,
my silent, interminable words.
When they have been locked
so recklessly away for so long.

But You...

I am tired,
of your cruel
and stupid words.

The ones you claim
are better,
because they are true.

As if in saying so,
it should soothe the pain
of their sting,
and the inescapable lashings
of their syllables.

I am supposed to be
enamored,
or find sweet caring
in your attentions.

Even as you make of me
some ugly, unhappy thing.

You are broken,
and in your pointed edges,
you make me bleed,
as if in my hurting,
you should be fixed and made whole.

I am tired,
of the cutting of your tongue,
and will not listen.

Though I long,
and cannot bear,
this unwanted need
to care for you.

If only I were not so tired,
I could forget you.

There is an end here,
somewhere.

It looms on the horizon,
making itself seen.
That forlorn stranger
sending echos across the
planes.

Were there not rains here?
Was there not life?
Is there no road here,
stretching back into the woods?
Could the faces not be seen?
Were the voices not heard?

There is an end here somewhere.

Is it closer?
Can not the moon swallow it up,
and take it back over the horizon?
To give these fields just one more day?

These longing butterflies
and aching rains.
Intertwined with these wild flowers,
who were only born yesterday.
This parched land,
only recently made.

I know there is an end here somewhere.

Just beyond the horizon,
behind the clouds,
guarded by that tattered creature,
and I will not go there.

Not yet.

The problem with breathing,
is that whenever you're around,
I stop doing it.

There is a pile,
in the middle of the room,
of jumbled words
and misspoke feelings

And it crowds into itself,
and slips and fills the wide spaces,
between painful moments
and awkward silences.

Could they be gathered up,
in these too tired arms,
and dropped unceremoniously,
into a bucket?

Oh! no, wait...
I want ceremony.

I want vigils of candles,
long black robes of ancient sects,
and the deep ominous humming of one
who is doing magic.

And in that solemn moment-
pregnant with meaning and purpose,
take those words
in a gratuitous blaze of fire,
and carry them away,
into the wind,
so I never, ever, have to hear them
in my head again.

Everything suddenly seems so imperfect,
the room too small and untidy.
I could count the number of places
I should be hiding.  

Adrenaline anxiety,
fueling my imagination
into implausible places,
but they seem possible right now.

I know, in reality
it would be ok,
but I can't agree with that,
I would rather be frantic.

It's easier, and harder
and I can't decide,
if it's any consolation
to have a name for this.  

Hey, I'd have a name tag,
to declare why you can't come over
why I can't message you back right now,
why I just can't.

And it would say:

Hello, my name is Anxious Introvert,
Please don't come over.

A small measure of kindness,
Folded up in a smile,
I am suddenly awake and aware.

It isn't fair.