I have spilled my thoughts like ink onto paper.
Thick. Absorbant. Unable to cleanse.
And you looked back at me, analyzing those words.
I told myself to keep my secrets hidden beneath me where I'm told the past ought to belong..
But your gaze lured them from the ground beneth my feet, dancing on my tongue before slipping between my teeth
Like poison.
I choked on those words as if they were palms pressing onto my throat,
But in unsteady strangled gasps they escaped regardless.
And now my fate resides in your analysis of my words that I cannot convey either regret or relief.
They were poison, but now that poison has left my body and to my dismay, I can breath again.
I can breath, but what may come of my breath?
What will become of me?
