. .
. . . .
I used to
do it everyday.
I pushed it beneath my skin;
I pulled it out like the splinters lodged in my foot
that I got from falling down the wooden staircase.
I thought I was inhaling paradise,
when I was just swallowing
my own destruction.
. . . . . . .
But it made
me feel alive for the
first time in my life. So alive that,
at the time, I couldn't recognize the snare that had
hooked me at the bottom of those decaying stairs.
I refused to see the lie, dragging me
further into the depths
of hollow eyes.
. . . .
. .
.

I am a logophile. A lover of words.
I love words. Language. The way sentences can be constructed and broken down. How you can persuade, intimidate, bribe, barter, bully, influence, tempt, and so on. I love poetry. Slang. Lyrics. Quotes. Phrases. I love the pronunciation of words. The way we can read between the lines. How we can distinguish "Okay" from "ok." from "Kay:)" from "k.". How some words can send shivers down your spine, be it from how they're worded to how they're spoken to who spoke them to what meaning it holds. I love the quiver of the lip when someone says something that hurts. The stammer, the raw emotion, the shake in their voice, the tears that swell up in their eyes.

And I love words even more
when they come from your mouth.