The words are angry, scrawled messily, screeching with every syllable.
They’re ringing and ringing and ringing and it’s all too loud,much to loud,
and my ears are full of the words and my mouth is choking on them.
My hands are full of them and the stench of them smothers my nose.
And before I can stop myself I’m asking you all the questions,
the questions that are made up of the ugly, terrible words.
Because I just need to make sure that you will always be here.
I need it like honey in my tea, like I need my window open halfway at night.
Because your words are creamy, rose gold, and shimmery.
And they coat my burning throat before I can ask anymore ugly questions.
So I’m sorry for the ugly questions, but you’re the only person to answer them.
And I don’t just need your words I need you,
I need you like I’ve never needed anyone.
Because I’ve learned that when you need someone, it’s just another source of ugly words
when you’re not loud enough or strong enough to keep up and all the ugly questions get in the way.
And they get tired of answering the ugly questions
and their shimmery words turn flat and frayed, barely stitched together.
And then suddenly there are no words left to be said,
just empty, hungry air devouring nothing.
And nothing is even worse than the ugly, screeching words.