The Vipers in My Mouth

The Vipers in My Mouth
by []

There’s a nest of vipers that lives inside my mouth.

I feel them there—coiled and twitching, always moving, always awake. They never sleep, no matter how still I try to be. Sometimes they seem calm, barely stirring, as if my quiet efforts to tame them have worked. But other times… other times they writhe, angry and impatient, pressing against my teeth like prisoners behind bars, begging to be let loose.

I never asked for them to live there. I don’t even remember when they moved in. Maybe they were born of too many things left unsaid. Or maybe they grew from the harsh words I once heard — sharp, careless things that lodged themselves deep in me, sprouting fangs of their own.

I’ve tried for years to train them.

I’ve whispered affirmations to them. I've recited mantras and practiced silence like it was a sacred ritual. I’ve swallowed hard and counted to ten, then twenty. I’ve written letters I never sent, yelled into pillows, walked away when I wanted to scream.

I’ve done everything I can to keep them asleep.

But somehow — always — one slips through.

It happens in the quiet moments, or when I’m trying to be funny. It sneaks into a joke, a comment, something meant to be lighthearted or clever. I open my mouth and before I realize it, I feel the sting — that sudden realization that I’ve said something wrong. Not cruel on purpose, but sharp nonetheless. The venom is in the tone, the timing, the twist of the words.

And I see it land.
I see the shift in the other person’s face — their eyes widen, their smile fades. The words hit harder than I meant them to. The poison sinks in.

I try to take it back.
To say, “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that.”
But it’s too late.

Venom doesn’t unbite. It spreads quickly, quietly, and all I can do is watch as it settles in their chest. The hurt I caused — accidental but real — now lives in them.

And then it begins to live in me, too.

Because when someone else hurts because of me, I hurt more. My chest burns with guilt, with shame. The vipers, now satisfied, curl back into their nest — but not without leaving me scorched.

Some days, I catch the words just in time. I feel them forming and clamp my jaw shut. I swallow them before they slip through. But that doesn’t make it easier. That just turns the pain inward.

The swallowed viper lashes around inside me. It tears through my stomach, coils itself tight around my ribs. The venom still comes, but now it burns from the inside. It twists through my guts and surges through my veins. I lie awake at night, clutching my chest, unable to rest.

It would be so much easier to just let them go.

To open my mouth and let the vipers strike whoever they please. To stop caring, stop holding back. To say whatever I want — no matter how sharp or biting.

But I can’t.

Because I’ve seen what that venom does. I’ve seen eyes cloud over, heard voices go quiet. I’ve watched people I care about retreat behind invisible walls — walls that I helped build, brick by careless brick.

And I know:
The pain I carry inside — the burning guilt, the twisting regret — hurts far less than the cold I leave behind in someone else’s heart when I let the venom out.

So I live with the nest.
I keep trying.
I breathe, I write, I wait.
And when the vipers stir, I pray for strength.
Not to silence them completely — maybe that’s impossible —
But to hold them just long enough
To choose kindness instead.