January 05, 2013
When words meant to be spoken are bottled up for too long, those words stop showering and shaving. Crank speed metal at four a.m. Carve lines into your forehead with rusty knives. Illegally park in handicapped spaces, create fake ads on Craigslist. Those bottled-up words trade up for down, left for right, dropkick you into the shacklebone zone. They smile in public, beat you in private. Fill your mouth with rains and hurricanes, pee a circle around your soul and mark it for extinction.
When words meant to be spoken are bottled up, they make rotgut wine, start lying about their age, slap a bumper sticker across your ass proclaiming: Graduate of the 12-Step Program for Underachievers. Those bottled-up words French kiss barrels of loaded guns. Become chalk outlines on the streets of reason. Leave you stripped and abandoned like a stolen car. Rewrite your life in third person blank-eyed verse. They smoke too much, tip too little, forget the city of their birth. Collect countless coroner’s reports and mold them into your shadow, then nail it to your feet.
Bottled-up words hog the sheets when you’re trying to sleep. Babble static. Drop bombs of chronic confusion. Grind your teeth into tombstones, scribble obits into your every breath. They desecrate instead of elevate. Tie your thoughts in a noose, hang common sense at high noon.
When words meant to be spoken are bottled up for too long, they stamp your life: Return to Sender. Trash talk you from heel to horizon, yet always speak your name and credit card number loud and clear when checking into death’s hotel.