Gutted
Blistering rocks formed by unsaid words
scrape my stomach leaving
molten imprints that burn me.
The pressure builds,
innards churning and knotting and
waiting to spill out.
I can’t tell where the
line between dream and materiality
lies.
The cracked web of blood
the broken skin of my knees
reveals more than futile phrases.
Does make believe have substance too?
It must, because everything
left unsaid sears my organs.
I am branded with absence,
its presence ringing in my ears and
curdling in my throat.
If I were sliced open,
these sentiments would splatter
over everyone that I have fooled.
But words are futile.
So I am left with these scorch marks.
Take me away.
Allow the fluid to gush and spurt.
Bleed me dry.
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