She wrote words on her skin with the hope they would seep into her blood stream,
and flow, freely, through her until they came to rest in her brain;
safe, protected, nestled, tucked away and waiting for the day they might slip,
tumbling onto her tongue.

Sometimes, she would trip over the words
clumsily crushed under teeth as they were flung around,
desperately seeking the chance to be expelled,
To yell “listen to me.”
But the words were confined to the bounds of her mind,
and she swallowed down the scrambled mush.

Perhaps, one day, she’d be able to push the words through her lips.
Perhaps, when they fell, she’d allow then to nurture, to nourish, to thrive and flourish.
They’d survived her endless grinding, her nervousness.
They’d blossom, bloom into sentenced to fragrant the scents would speak for themselves,
her words merely complementing the intent.

She wrote words on her skin,
tattooing her thoughts in plain sight
because despite the fact she’s never have the confidence to voice them, she longed to be heard,
so, when sound failed her,
she worried not but wrote the words.

(17/18.10.17)