Between us stand a hundred conversations
That we never had. All the struggles within
Us, untackled, muted, piling up, right up to
The oesophagus and still we dared not to speak.
Would we still be speaking if we had opened
Our frightened mouths, if we had found the right
Words in the right moment? Or did we just need an
Excuse, unspoken, to officially draw the line?
We carried the emotions attached to the words
That we left unsaid around within us, wearing
Our hearts on our sleeves, keeping ourselves at bay,
Not taking risks, silently boiling over under cold
Muting showers. The ghost conversations pottering
In our brains, our bloodstream, as if everything had
Been just yesterday, the fresh meat, the bones in our mouth.
What happens if we don’t verbalise the avalanche
Galloping up from our throats, where does it go, will it
Make us sick, sick to the core, fattening, expanding, unused,
Lacking metamorphosis, the bad staying bad, reeking,
Dreaming of becoming something, healthy, creative,
And we keep shoving it down our throats into our gut,
The tongue a muscle not living up to its potential, because
Of us, and the energy that hits walls after walls within us
Will find its own way of getting back at us instead of us liberating
It, until, in conclusion, it draws a line through our own name
And goes up in flames.