There are words that do not sound like literature but the breaking of glass on concrete. Once uttered, a million pieces shattered.
One of the worst lies I ever embraced was that words aren’t concrete enough to cut through tissue, but now, I think that whoever had the audacity to parallel them with sticks and stones had definitely never met a saw-toothed blade.
I told my heart that it was made of rubber and could bounce between concrete and the mouths that house vile confessions. Some words are sharp though, they can puncture through tractor tyres sipping life out into the thin of air.
Some words have made fountains of my lacrimal glands and I’m not usually one to cry in public, and by public, I mean in front of anything that needs the same air I breathe.
There are words that do not sound like literature, but the mending of shattered glass. Once uttered, a soothing balm.
There are words that pick you up and wrap you into the warmth of their embrace. I think that whoever had the audacity to parallel them with sticks and stones had definitely never felt the tender liking of home.
There are words that speak life back into a punctured heart.
Perhaps some words are sticks, their letters carve into the rod of Moses parting the red sea, paving way for love to dance on the deep of insecurity, drowning out every maybe, what if & not yet.