I have something to say. How can I say it? Something has a hold of my words and I really just can’t shake it. Something thick and putrid that tastes like fear lodges its way down my throat and towards my stomach. Or perhaps towards my heart. Please don’t walk away just yet, I hope if I try hard enough I can say what I need to say.
But hope died a long time ago, when you ripped it from my body and laced it around your fingers. And now all that is left is this burning need to tell you what I had wanted to say each time I looked into those eyes like coal.
My stomach is uneasy and might devour itself from the inside out. My palms are hot and sweaty and my nails might pick the skin right off them. I swear if you just give me a few more minutes, I can say what I need to say. The words burn like acid on my tongue and yet they still just sit there, burning holes in my mouth. I realize then that I would rather harbor those acidic words and keep them to myself, because you wouldn’t have understood them anyways.