WORDS

I'm good with words.
They get thrown at me,

I process them, and respond accordingly,
like passing ball back and forth.

Words are a game.

When it comes to words, I have nerves of steel.

I can handle anything.

But when you look at me like that,

or any way, actually,

I can't process, I can't think.

I'm consumed by something uncomfortably real.

You're forcing me to feel,
and suddenly I can't

remember my name,

and the bile my thinking brain was holding in

bubbles and rises and spills out, chagrined,

and it's all laid out, jumbled
in words I never intended to say.

Words that don't mean anything at all.

Words that are stand-ins for the ones I can't bear to share.

So whatever garbled message you get in response

to all your smiles and looks and the sparkle in your eye

is the closest thing to the truth that you will ever pry

out of me.