the words swell at the back of the throat
not sharp, not graceful,
just swollen, sticky things
that taste of rusted mirrors and dust

they scrape against teeth
as if begging for release
but the mouth betrays them
lips clamp shut, jaw wired tight
and the body remembers
how silence can arrive dressed as shelter

apologies ferment there
growing bitter,
soured by delay and shame
they roll around the tongue as gravel that thinks itself precious stone
until even breath carries the weight of a cathedral underwater

each inhale interrupted,
as though contrition itself
is a hand pressed firm against the windpipe
reminding me regret is not air
regret is a shadow stitched to bone
regret is residue that glows faintly in the dark

and the chest shudders
a body trying to cough out
something it cannot name
something lodged between
what should be spoken
and what should stay buried

I choke,
but nothing escapes
except the silence
and the heat of a throat
burning with everything
I meant to give away.