Well, Didn't Your Mother Ever Tell You to Eat Your Words?

I could feel the words tumbling out of my mouth, each one falling flat on the floor, potent, painful. Like a waterfall of acid, they spilled out of me. I couldn’t stop it. Once it started, it was beyond my control.

I couldn’t look at her face. I just couldn’t do it. I could see her in my mind’s eye – not crying, no, but it was worse to picture her standing there with those pens tucked into her messy hair, holding in the tears. Eyes watering, but no, she wouldn’t be crying. She was strong, something I could never be.

Instead, I looked at her shoes and noticed a hole in the worn red canvas.

I would have done anything at that moment to just stop, to pick my words up off of the dirty floor, put them back inside me where I was the only person they could hurt. They felt like tangible objects. Like I was hurling something at her that had a physical weight.

Something that left bruises.

I wanted to cry.

But instead I just let the words fill up the room around us until we were drowning in them.

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