I can feel the words shriveling inside me. Some are wiggling worms, others are tickling pedals. I want shovel them out of my rotting wounds and yank them by their roots. Yet I hold breath. I muffle sound. I hear only those thoughts--theses thoughts--of my own doing. My own actions of speech, my own actions of affliction vibrate to my finger tips--scratching the air wild. I'm numb to touch, to love, to compassion. But I crave it. I crave acceptance with muted out stretched words. I thrive on confrontation to steady a heart nervous from the blade of lies.
I lick the needle's tip. Tempt me. I dare it. Peirce me. Open me to poison and to sorrow. To the misery of unraveling truth. To the lights bright from chemical outburst of war. Then tell me to be of peace. Tell me to settle my mind--my confliction. Tell me then how I mattered. Scream it into deaf ears until your voice is coarse. Until your voice is nothing but escaping air through lungs. Scream it till you can't hear yourself anymore--till you can't think anymore.
Because that's what I have done.
For you.
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