In contemplation I sit, frailties defined by dissonant words on scraps of discarded paper, crumpled haphazardly at my feet, written in invisible ink. Many words I’ve wished to share, but kept hidden from view, afraid of the (possible) danger ahead. They gnaw, corrosive, and eventually spill over, taking form, moulded by hurt, a brutal catharsis over which I have no control.

I stand, a hunger, overwhelming, to retrieve, rub out, scrub from both memory and view.

But underfoot they bite like bitter shards of broken glass, penetrating the soul, a timely reminder that some things really should be obscured, confined with permanence within the deafening sound of silence.