Speak

Each word is a stone
that I rolled up the hill
just for it to roll back on
me.

Each word is a gap
in the wall of silence
for flaming arrows to come
through.

Each word is a trap
set up in front of me
so I can step in it and
squirm.

I wish it didn't
feel like that all the time;
would losing my tongue be so
bad?

Bad...
leave me a pen and we'll see
if I can be stronger;
I wish I didn't

squirm
each time I open my mouth
knowing I'll soon regret
trying to talk things

through
as misinterpretations
suck at my ankles; a
bog prepared just for

me.
Because maybe no one else
will notice when I trip,
but what if they do?