swallow

That sharp pricking feeling in my nose right before a tear drops from my eyes.

The dull and hollow ache right below my sternum. It only lasts for a few seconds, but it was there.

I mull over the words in my mind, over and over again. I know what I want to say. Word for word. I picked each one of them carefully and arranged them perfectly. Like a bouquet.

My breath hitches as soon as I open my mouth.

I can just see it now, left on the kitchen table. Still wrapped in paper. It only takes a few days for them to shrivel up and brown.

So I choke back the petals and let the stems form a lump in my throat.

You’ll never know that I removed all the thorns for you.

On Journaling:

I write, finding solace in the idea that these words are my own. That no other eyes will graze this page and that my dreams and delusions live in solitude.

Simultaneously, that is precisely why I write, finding emptiness after every sentence. Like I am screaming into the void without even an echo to affirm my thoughts. My dreams and delusions stay stagnant. They do not know what it feels like to converse with another soul.

At what point does the discomfort of isolation outweigh the relief of uninhibited expression?