Time to Let the Bottled Word Be Spilled

You’ve wasted yourself into a stretch,
scratching yourself so thin you can’t even use the wall to lean on.
You’re shooting me all these metaphors
but never blinked twice before shouldering my answer.
I grit my teeth
and I let you have your say
then I shrug and roll my eyes
as you start to turn away.
On a day like this,
whispers are higher than screams,
and bones are harder than diamonds.

The silence is touchable,
the tension
vibrating the atmosphere like an 18 Gigawatt lamp.
You know it’ll burst but you don’t know when.
All you know is that when it does burst
it’ll blow up in your face.

Powerful words showers over you,
pulls you down under,
squeezing you against the ground
until you can’t breathe anymore.

Bottling up is an art of self-assassination.
It’s all about absorbing negativity,
sucking it dry from the very source
and injecting yourself with an ignorance while handholding bliss.
You make sure your sponge-like body doesn’t bruise while entangled in layers of bandage.
But bandage doesn’t stop the bleeding caused by words.
Bandages won’t stop the bleeding caused by a severed trust,
and there is no plaster in the world
that will cover up a bruise so big
as the day you decided to wreck everything.