My tongue unfurls,
knotted and bruised,
tumbling down my knees.
A sob, a thick glob of sound,
catches on my teeth,
a pearl without an oyster,
a stone in my throat.
My chest beats hard,
a frantic, thudding rhythm,
like a cat trapped in a bag,
desperate for air, for light,
a way out of this cage
of words I refuse to utter.
And the anxiety screams,
a high-pitched shriek in my ears,
as it scrambles and claws,
demanding attention,
pushing words out of me
that I never meant to say.

A chaotic flood of feeling,
a messy, unfiltered truth.
I watch your face,
a mirror of my fears,
and I know I've done it again—
said too much.
Fast, loud, honest,
and ruined.

Too much. Too soon.

The silence that follows
is the loudest sound I've ever heard.