I bite my tongue, suck it in and swallow. Let words wallow and wilt in a cell that I build for all those that never made it out. Silenced by my doubt and left to sink down my esophagus, seared by stomach acid, they smolder. Growing older, growing stale, I fail to cultivate, to mitigate the weight of words solidifying, not trying to save them from a useless state.
I’ve got indigestion from all the unconventional confections I've been ingesting, testing my limits. I’ve got heartburn, because I never learned to chew my food. I swallow whole sentences in one bite despite it being rude. But it’s a habit I’ve fallen into, a pit I’ve slipped into and can’t escape. I can’t shape a sentence worth sharing, not caring to be a part of the conversation. I have no declarations I deem fit for telling, no ideas that I’m selling at any price. I think twice about speaking and by then I’ve lost my chance. It’s a dance I don’t know the moves to.
Like changing lanes in heavy traffic, if i hesitate i am lost, so at the cost of raising questions i chose to stay in my lane. not changing my habits to fit into the flow. i slow down and turn down a side street where i can breathe, sit, park and watch as others lead the chase. I can't seem to face up to being part of that race to nowhere. I can fake it but I’m always half a beat behind, and I find it easier to just stop, take the time to think, and if the words sink to my stomach half chewed once more, at least I’ll have stores of ideas for when winter comes and they’re hard to come by.
But stomach full and mouth shut,I'm in a rut.
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