Words of Manipulation

I clear my throat. I think out loud. I say what I mean to say. What do you hear? Me or yourself or something in between? What makes a word and takes a word places we don't intend? And can ever an action rectify and stitch the heart to mend?

I fear we forsake our emotions; we paint them with stripes of pride. Yet, we are never so clever to put our own egos aside. The root of the matter is rarely what's cared for, we've veered and strayed off course. Intention instead is splattered, with hurt and disdain and remorse.

My tongue can't hold back what my heart says is pain and feels it is owed, its whole be reclaimed. The thoughts? They are shattered, they've ripped and they're tattered and no one is left the same. The words grew larger, breathed life of their own and they are the ones to blame.

We berated. We debated. Now clearly something unrecognizable is created. The words don't hush- they rush, now mocking they distort what we mean to say. Our stripes? Oh sure, still on, but blurry and faded and heavy with selfish weight.

We stop. Pause. Take hold. We look around the room. It's dark in here; it's musty and cold like a cavern or maybe a tomb. The walls are thick with the molds of forgiveness that was never let to fly free. No breath is left between the two, what it is is what it will be.

And all of a sudden the words whisper something that makes it all so simple and plain. "Wisdom defends itself with worth and ignorance dances in shame. One beams and shows us the light and the other dwindles and fades. It is true that between you two the flame flickers to dim. Tell me now again, just who is the victim?"

Frozen with terror one looks at the other, the chill of the words seek their prize to claim. Too late they've come to realize what was before and what it became. The words knew the answer, we just played along. I clear my throat. I think before I say. "Is it me? Or is it you? Or is Truth the one that is slain?"