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Nov 2018
You roll the words around on your tongue.
They dance a feather-light staccato
against the back of your clenched teeth.
Motes of dust gather on your still lips.
Silence is a story you tell yourself before bed
and when you hear birdsong banishing the night.
A bonfire rages in the back of your throat.
The smoke stings your eyes.
You do not speak.
You do not cry.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr
Written by
Hannah Marr  19/F/Canada
(19/F/Canada)   
  192
     Raven, Jason Elliot, ---, trf, --- and 1 other
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