I stumbled over my words, today,
and it hurt.

Like nails, chipped off and dug in.
Like grief, slow and numb until it swallows, drowns you.
Like a culmination of things that has no good end.

It hurt, to feel a mess,
to stutter and restart,
to not quite have the right things come out.
It hurt, to hold my breath in,
to keep my ears open,
to not say: slow down, slow down, please,
you're speaking too fast, please.
To have to force the words through,
any that will come, on a day
where I hadn't wanted
to need to speak at all.

It. hurts.
Physically, under my chest.
A dull, hollow ache, that settles.
My head throbbing over it all.

It hurts, and nothing soothes it.

Not the feeling of inadequacy.
Not the bereft sense of loneliness.
Not the gnawing helplessness.


A cold comfort:
it's better, the next day -- easier.
to hide the uneasiness, to speak.
to keep face, match tone.

Easier, but not better.

I clench my hands into fists,
dig my nails into my skin,
and there is no one to notice that, either.