Sometimes,
words are born from the crack in your heart as minor as an hairline fracture,
take up space in veins alongside blood forming clots in between and get caught
in the lump of your throat choking your voice.
Because you cannot
say them out aloud. Because saying them aloud would mean setting your world
ablaze. Creating a pyre with the same hands with which you have nurtured
happiness, one day at a time, using your spit as fuel and lighting the fire
with your tongue. You are still sane enough to not do that.
You thus let it
bite you in the pit of your stomach. You let the carcasses of your words burn
in the same crack in your heart where they were born. You let them rot inside
the whole of you. The stench and burden of these words will then come out of
your mouth as nothing but fumes. Visible yet invisible.
