There is not much difference between words.
Maybe there is, maybe it is different.
There is horror in thoughts, in desiring
Something unknown; it seems known to others.
It is kept hidden, secret, and it is unfair.
When words bubble up, they are strange.
Foreign and harsh, sandpaper on the tongue.
It is not what is meant, but they are hurled anyway.
No instruction is given, it is supposed to be assumed.
The dryness bursts through the teeth,
Audio (because that is all words are) is caught
Without an apology, or question, or an answer.
Everything feels raw, but that must be the sandpaper.
Distinguishing difference is impossible,
Attempts to try are shot down, uncaring.
Gritty mumbles and coarse conversations
Reel back; it is so unfair, but not really.
There must be a solution, but if there isn’t?
Better luck next time, when the slate is
Scrubbed ragged, and when
Things don’t feel like sandpaper for all of two weeks.
In Gethsemane I studied her
As she turned from me,
No solid look in her eyes.
I forgot her name again.
She was paging through me,
Flipping the fresh paper that
I believed to be yellow.
How naive of me.
Her name was close
With each syllable read,
Was it betrayal I felt?
Or some new wonder?
My spine was basic paper back,
Not leather like I wanted.
I was a cheap novel.
She was an apathetic audience.
It was too much hope
To ask for neater font,
To present more.
Ink was leaking from the wound,
Dripping onto the grass,
Ruining the garden,
Severing the flow.
I remembered the name,
The feelings were mixed.
I continued to study her more:
Because I wanted something from it.