The words stick to my ribs.
They glue my diaphragm to exhaled lungs.
Breath won't come.
.
They fill my stomach with acid.
I can't vomit them up, can't move them through.
They rot inside my guts.
.
The words are old
But festering wounds do not clean themselves with time.
They devour, they kill.
.
These words are killing me then.
They are wrapping delicate hands around my throat
And squeezing.
.
The words have gone fuzzy though
And I cannot tell if it is because I am losing my mind
Or if I am finally succumbing to them.
About the Creator
Silver Daux
Shadowed souls, cursed magic, poetry that tangles itself in your soul and yanks out the ugly darkness from within. Maybe there's something broken in me, but it's in you too.
Ah, also:
Tiktok/Insta: harbingerofsnake
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The Ritual of Winter Challenge Winners
Welcome to the Winners Announcement for The Ritual of Winter challenge. This prompt focused on winter rituals and the meaning that settles into them over time. The top pieces stay grounded in ordinary acts and repeated routines, letting winter shape the work through pace, attention, and restraint.
By Vocal Curation Team7 days ago in Resources
Comments (3)
So sad and powerful.
Potent language about the potency of language!
Woah! I felt the pain and discomfort of this line so strongly “They glue my diaphragm to exhaled lungs”. Words are so powerful and you really captured their lasting impact in this