Some days, I want to talk about everything.
I want to open up and just talk.
But when I try to, I find I have nothing to say.
The words that I thought were there?
They have somehow become entangled beneath the surface.
There is no solidity to them.
Within an instant they can change.
They become something new.
The same thoughts now put into different words.
I can’t reach them.
So I sit in silence until they resurface.
When they finally do, I am alone.
No one around.
Me and my words.
We remain in silence.
Maybe it is the words.
Maybe it is me.
Maybe I push the words away.
I know not to speak them.
Once they exist, there is no turning back.
You can’t escape them.
They follow you, surround you, swallow you.
More than you wanted, or needed.
You become entangled in a web of words.
A web of truth.
Too sticky to face.
Too real to be in existence.
So you hide the words.
They are pushed away.
Swept away with a movement of the hand.
Always there below the surface.
But tangled, just enough for safety.
Waiting.

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