I wound you
When my thoughtless words stretch just enough,
When I sharpen the tip of the tone
Just enough to pierce your skin
That others see as thick,
As invincible.
I stab beneath the surface
Into your innermost core of solid muscle
Where you draw your strength.
My words snap your heavy tree limb bones
As if they were bent toothpicks.
Your too-large heart slumps unnaturally
Into the fracture of your ribcage.
The sudden shift in the weight distribution
Of your vital organs
Shoves your lungs backward.
It is like boulders crumbing
Within the mountain
Rather than down each side—
Rather than tumble into the road,
The shattering trembles from within
And has nowhere to go.
When I wound you
You pause for a second.
You do not breathe.
The silent confusion settles
Deeply in your dark countenance
Giving way to the inner turmoil
Beneath your unwavering stare.
Your sturdy frame thrown off balance
By my thoughtless speech,
By my words that I dispel
Lightly like the slight icy pricking
Of a frigid wind unwelcomed.
Tears sting my eyes.
I blink, and the burning
Does not fall to ashes.
When I wound you
Your stillness screams so loudly
That it interrupts the rush in my speech mid-flight—
“Oh god. I’m sorry.”
More words that mean nothing.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
But I know.
The breeze that has the gall
To topple the fortress
Lacks the dexterity to piece it
Back together again.
There is no forgiveness in that.
