The thoughts in my head tumble on and on, a coin hurtling on its roll down a slope, a movie reel spooling continually forward, a gymnast set on the gold. Words are born in a dark, quiet place without fanfare. Nobody will know of these words.

Me, spiteful. Envious. Remember the days when you would sit back, disappointed? I ask, without sound. When you had to tag along only to be thrown down and grouped against?

Two notes. Up, down. Horridly clear and perfect. Audible. Of course. Of course it's someone for you, I think bitterly. Never for me. Never again for me.

My mental jinx. These, the only words led out on the march to the end of my tongue and off my lips. Frankly, I'd be more interesting to them. Silent. Cruel. Vengeful. Hurt. You in your faraway world where nobody can reach you – how in the world is that so fascinating to them?

I ponder this, the sour tang of melon still crawling across the back of my tongue, reluctant to make the final jump. Of course, they'd rather you than me any day. Me and all the wrong words, leaving no room for them on the bench. Big and loud and clumsy, taking all the space. Piled in untidy heaps. Spilling over with desperate effort. The silence, my betrayer, reaches inside my head, feeding them words they don't want to hear. Not all of it fits there. Not them and me and all those misplaced words. It's them or the words. They knew that. They always knew. Of course they'd rather you.

Melon flavor begins to fizzle away, fighting a rising tide of saliva and acid. What do I care anyway?