There are words which I wish to pour onto the world immediately. They are careless and unforgiving — raw. They lash out, inflicting blisters on my skin just near my lips, my neck. Surely they last for only a flicker, faster than a blink.
And there are words kept hidden in my drawer. Waiting, waiting.
[on a more casual note: I was supposed to post this last night. But sleep got in the way, gah!]
“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”
[Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath]