My words are coated with
Cool river water,
Not because that is all I know
But because I can.
I scoop up some of the
Dab a drop onto every syllable
That springs forth from between my lips,
Hiding scarlet blisters that threaten to burst and hurt.
Out of con
That is expected of me and
Has been tossed about and
Reduced to a flickering mass of coal that threatens to become ash.
That can certainly be rekindled
To provide a warmth,
But one that I have now learned
I have a hurt
That begs to be felt,
That burns brighter than consideration.
A hurt that ripples outwards
To heatedly kiss the air,
Breaks apart the drops that
I have lovingly placed onto each letter
It sends up sparks,
Generating a sharp crackle
In my words,
Indicative of a fire that cannot be contained,
Of a damage beyond repair.
That has not broken me,
But a damage
That has broken the dam
Holding back these damning words
That is capable of scorching so many souls.
Ericka Shin is a writer for the Weekender. Contact her at [email protected]