“If there’s something you want to say, say it.”
Nonchalant, yet sharp were those words he spoke plainly.
And they hit somewhere deep in my gut,
a cater of lava that was swirling, pooling,
waiting like a prisoner,
ready to bound forth from its cage
and into tumbling words
spilling out of my mouth with no gate,
driving spears of hate toward anyone who
treaded across my personal boundaries.
“If there’s something you want to say, say it.”
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
Because when I even THINK about uttering one syllable,
that lava will burst forth,
over
flow
into words and feelings that are better left alone for right now
until they are processed, cooled into hardened rock.
But I couldn’t tell him that in that moment.
Couldn’t tell him that me not saying what I wanted
to truly say
was my way
of protecting him.
Instead, I uttered,
“I’m furious. Just don’t talk to me.”
It hurt him, I know.
But so did the lava boiling against my skin,
scratching against my heart
to tally the days it’s been since it’s seen the sun.
Your sun is in the form of a yellow lab
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