You want words?
I have plenty.
They pace the walls of my throat,
waiting for permission.
Listen close.
Sometimes they’re sweet.
Like honey forgotten
in the back of the cupboard.
Thick. Slow. Earned.
Sometimes they’re salt.
They sit behind my tongue.
Raw and unwashed.
I keep those for special occasions.
They season things.
You want words?
I have angry ones.
They stand up straight.
They are the bared teeth that helped me survive,
the ugly necessity that held the line.
The words that became the armor
to protect the sweet ones
and clear a path so love can enter.
The sad ones sit with me
and pat my back.
Heavy as wet wool.
Honest as rain.
Proof I cared enough
for something to hurt when it left.
They water the ground.
I don’t rush them.
The tender ones
that finally grow from the mud—
I hold them tight.
They have the bitter aftertaste of everything
it took to grow them,
but I get to have something
that doesn’t bite back.
Words of fear—
they knock
before every door I open.
They tell me stories
about the other side.
Most of them are lies.
But they remind me
I have something to lose,
which means I have something.
And that is a kind of wealth.
You want words?
I have heavy ones.
Carried in my pocket
until the seams tore.
Sometimes they’re small.
Yes. No. Don’t. Enough.
Syllables that can hold up a life.
Syllables that can end one.
I choose carefully.
I have new ones too.
They don’t know
where the exits are yet.
They stop at my lips,
surprised to be free.
Joy. Rest. Grace.
I am teaching them to stay.
But my favorite—
the words of love.
I’ve always had those,
even when they sat in my chest
with nowhere to go.
Now they pour out,
flood the room and soak the floor.
There is no vocabulary wide enough.
I say those with my whole life
because my mouth is too small.
You want words?
I have plenty.
But the ones of love—
they are patient as breath,
and they are not on loan.
They get the last line.
And the best ones.
They’re mine.
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