My mouth snips words at the seams. I fashion each phrase into a spitting needle, tipped with accusation.
The middle of the night grants me the anonymity of a disembodied voice. Crafted into hard edges and polished with casual cruelty.
But I find that as I swing my voice-edge, the blade sticks in my throat. Every word turned cauterized scar, mid-thrust, until I can scarcely speak.
It appears guilt has become a potent keloid. It seems advancing age has softened my heart.
10:38 p.m. - 2015-06-28
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