words
they’re funny things, aren’t they?
they can paint a blush on my pale cheeks,
spark a glitter in my tired eyes,
yet bruise and burn my blue‑shattered skin.
they choke my crackled throat,
leave no mark,
only a private, excruciating ache
hidden,
never seen.
words.
i carry them in backpacks,
heavy rocks grinding into my shoulders.
muffled screams rattle the zipped‑up dark
until they burst their cage
and spill into mine-
creeping,
attacking,
consuming.
there’s no stopping them.
words
my mind shouts them constantly,
a blaring alarm with no snooze.
even in sleep they cling to me,
tiny daggers scattered across my duvet.
i toss, i turn,
scratched and pierced
so the blood can pool out,
so i can be nothing
and they can be something.
words.
things i can’t take back.
they echo through my hollow mind,
pounding like a drum
as i reach for them
too late.
they sting,
yet stay-
stacking,
piling,
until there’s no room left
to feel.
words
never let me forget
my past,
my flaws,
myself.
so i hand them their power.
i let them define me.
and i sink,
fall,
plummet
into the darkness of their echoes,
buried beneath their weight.