For a while I carried words like weapons.
Saw them only for their sharpened edges
the way in which they could slice,
leave mouths open, gasping,
they way they burrowed into skin
and clanged like gongs in the silence
of lonely, sleepless nights.
I had enough scars of my own to show
just how dangerous words could be.
I knew where to aim for,
which veins would bleed the most.
Anger can only burn on a short fuse.
It fizzles out after a while
and you are left cold,
holding knives slick with your own blood.
No one warns out about the energy
that pain steals.
The way the hollowness can swallow
everything you had built of yourself.
Healing takes time.
On nights when I’m awake and he is not
I pick words from beneath my skin,
the ones I half forgot,
scabbed over but not yet gone.
I will turn them over in the blue light
from the wireless router on the night stand,
and try to make sense of a handwriting
not seen in years.
I will tell myself I am older,
I will pretend they do not hurt anymore.
Daily Prompt: Carry