“Selective mute,” you call me.
Listening more than I speak.
I watch and wait in studious silence,
Hear your thoughts before they're said.
Baited breath, edge of my seat –
Your tongues are duller than they seem to think,
And yet I remain silent.
Perhaps I am only biding my time;
Trying to find the right moment,
When I –
Weak and fragile beast as though I may be –
Discover the words I need.
The words to illuminate what you have wrought,
To rip away that thin veil
strip by cheaply-woven strip.
Perhaps I am only searching for the opportune moment
To reveal the damage you have done
And the pain you have dealt;
To show the deep bruises shown
red and blue in the darkness;
To prove that you were the one doing the treading.
They say I am selectively mute.
The wise have something to say,
The ignorant have to say something.