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Personal Note:

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Poem


My tongue curls in on itself,
an unreasonable fist
too stubborn to unclench.
Pulling punches, muscle memory
it never owned, saves
what little flesh hasn’t folded
to thicker skin in the game.

Yet here it is, unraveling,
slowly surrendering to necessity—
callused, unwelcome softening
in a mouth that remembers
nothing gentle, nothing easy.
The grip loosens only to recoil,
a reflex meant to protect,
now an ill-fit for the words
meant for escape—
stripped of venom, too tired
to be anything, but honest.

And still, the flesh twists,
contorts to dodge old habits,
words that never leave clean—
teeth sink in, a reminder
of what stays hidden underneath
a thickening hide, each
unspoken syllable
recoiling back, gaining weight 
until the tongue
is too heavy to lift—
its heft like a bruised knuckle,
an echo of every blow held back,

then finally, the weight snaps,
and the tongue lashes out,
too late, too raw—
spitting truth like broken teeth,
each word a splintered bone,
sharp enough to bleed,
but swallowed back down,
leaving nothing behind but the taste
of iron and regret—
a quiet that crushes the chest
with all the words that could have saved it.

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