He’d never thought of words as being something physical before, but then he’d never met anyone like her before either. She wove a web of words about his soul, so light and comfortable he never realized it was there. Her words becoming a part of him, so much so that he never realized they were hers and not his. And then this. It was not that comforting feeling of her, lifting him up, helping him be just a little better. No. Her words were a precise instrument of destruction, reaching inside and delicately slicing off pieces of his soul, his very being. Her words, doing to him on the inside, what she couldn’t do to him physically. He’d never thought of words like that, as real physical things. As she cut and chopped and hacked off little pieces of him, in a display of coldness and cruelty, he realized how wrong he’d been. The words matter.
The truest form of love, is letting them go.
My baseball bat does not work, on my head
Let this be a warning to everyone. Be careful what you play with. Be careful where you go inside yourself. They wait there. Inscrutable. Immutable. Coherent and fluid. The Words you play with. Taking on a life of their own, consuming you, creating you. Destroying you. Flowing from your finger tips, your lips. Dancing across your keyboard. Lancing into your brain. They bifurcate into shapes singular. And metamorphosize into what they’ve always been. Tonight the Words have grabbed me. Taken me. Made me their own. There is something moving in me, growing in me. The Words. Flowing from my Soul.
Words. Slippery, like wet skin. Or axle grease. Prickly. Like sea urchins and broken glass. Pick them up, turn them over, fit them into place. They never fit. They cut your hands. Words. Like frozen bolts and stuck windows. Warm. Like the sun on your skin, or the way she used to look at you. They still don’t fit. Broken wheels and flat tire words. Velvety and smooth. Like your lovers skin. The breath on your neck. Like love, and everything good. Glowing. In your mind, just out of reach. They never, quite, fit. Words. Hammer them into place. Bend them to your Will. Tease them. Tempt them. Beg. Wheedle them. Fit them into place. They never fit.
I need a bigger baseball bat.
I pull the words around me, like warm blankets. Safe and comfy. Wrap myself up, keep the cold away for one more day, hour, minute. Wrap myself up, cover me up. Warm. Safe. Covered in words, wrapped in hyperbole. Wrapped around me like the warm hug of old friends, or a lover. The warm blankets of my youth. Feel them, sliding across my skin, brushing against me. Inside me. Safe. Warm. I snuggle into the words, like a child. The words surround me, hold me. Warm. Safe. I pull the words around me, warm blankets. Safe. Warm. My prison. My Armor. My words.
I read the words. Precise, like the cut of a scalpel. Meanings entwined and complex. I imagine the sound of the keyboard. The tapping, musical, as the paragraphs form. I can’t get my head around it. Around them. The words. Sharp. Like precision instruments. Specifically designed, consciously directed, wrapping around themselves. And me.
I write the words. Clubs, like baseball bats to the head. Obvious and transparent. I hear the sound of the keyboard. Rocks pounding. Pounding. Pounding. As the words grudgingly are thrown, screaming to their deaths. I want to beat them with my bat. Make them work. Bend. Spindle. Mutilate. Cobbled together, randomly scattered, huddling together like vagrants on the street. I love every lost one.
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