Lava

“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.

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