stifled upon my tongue are the words that are not mature enough to be spoken. i baby them, like my mother and her mother before her. i trace it back to Eve and her solace and what lead her to that forsaken apple. do you love me? do i remain the women you laid your eyes upon? we talk in the language of lovers who sit on the different side of the table. the silence is very telling. perhaps i should shed my rotten skin and show you what exists inside of my core. i have done it once. peeled back each scab and covered the ointment with my lies. in the end i do what all the women in my life has done and stare relentlessly out the window, deliriously imagining all the lives my words have lived as they suffocate, one harrowing breath after another.
a letter I left upon the kitchen table
