I wound you

When my thoughtless words stretch just enough,

When I sharpen the tip of the tone

Just enough to pierce your skin

That others see as thick,

As invincible.

I stab beneath the surface

Into your innermost core of solid muscle

Where you draw your strength.

My words snap your heavy tree limb bones

As if they were bent toothpicks.

Your too-large heart slumps unnaturally

Into the fracture of your ribcage.

The sudden shift in the weight distribution

Of your vital organs

Shoves your lungs backward.

It is like boulders crumbing

Within the mountain

Rather than down each side—

Rather than tumble into the road,

The shattering trembles from within

And has nowhere to go.

When I wound you

You pause for a second.

You do not breathe.

The silent confusion settles

Deeply in your dark countenance

Giving way to the inner turmoil

Beneath your unwavering stare.

Your sturdy frame thrown off balance

By my thoughtless speech,

By my words that I dispel

Lightly like the slight icy pricking

Of a frigid wind unwelcomed.

Tears sting my eyes.

I blink, and the burning

Does not fall to ashes.

When I wound you

Your stillness screams so loudly

That it interrupts the rush in my speech mid-flight—

“Oh god. I’m sorry.”

More words that mean nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

But I know.

The breeze that has the gall

To topple the fortress

Lacks the dexterity to piece it

Back together again.

There is no forgiveness in that.