unsaid
--
a poetic prose
“for once, could you just write me something that will make me happy?”
they asked as they shrunk and tucked their smile into the corner of their mouth. i tried not to stare at the dark tinge of their lips. it matched the color of their gums; something they only showed me accidentally when the moon sat too fat in the sky to not devour it and each other. i watched the small cloud of smoke float from their parted lips making them so hallow i could only ever worship them again from a distance. i halted my breath in honor of this beauty.
“it’s just. . . you always write the kind of stuff that makes me sad.”
the words slipped through the gap of their front teeth with little resistance. i tried not to imagine my tongue exploring the ridges of their stained enamels, planting seeds in the gaping bits, and waiting for a concrete type of bloom only found in the smiles of us forgotten people.
“i am sorry.”
i apologized to them without meaning it. i should have told them that i can’t help what falls out of me. i have tried to catch those ugly bits, but they fall faster than the other pieces of me. i should have said sometimes my sadness holds me hostage, feeds me only bits of its creole and forces me to watch the reruns of my nightmares. none of that mattered in the end because they accepted my apology like it was an honor rightfully earned. they looked down at me waiting. as if the ink would flow from my index finger at their command. like my skin would become paper under their gaze. i watched them untuck and expand their smile while my voice hid in its own corner waiting to receive my tongue’s weekly thrashings.
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