An Unfinished Poem

I am the keeper of the words.

The words I conjure form the stories I weave, the skin I wear, the air I breathe. My fragile state is held together by a paste of whispered stories, hide behind a shield of imaginary worlds created solely to protect.

I charge forth into the depths of reality, swinging a sword of my own forging. Collected words make my blade sharp, the edge reinforced with carefully selected sentences. I pick and choose words; speaking only when needed, biding my time, waiting for the [perfect] combination before I swing.

I can easily count the number of blows it will take to knock down my enemy (Five: No wonder your girlfriend left you) and yet I am hesitant to swing (seven: I thought of him the entire time), for I have been on the other end of the blade before (Eight: Your father will never be proud of you) and know how hard those wounds are to heal. Carefully concocted sentences require the perfect formula for an antidote- only time can tell if you picked the right ones, and even long after the sting has faded (Eight:We were never friends in the first place) you still find the scars never fully fade. The marks left on your skin close up but become words of your own, your deepest fears bubbling to the surface, worn for all to see like a tattoo. They make you doubt yourself.

(Why didn’t you chose me?)