What if my words were steam building up
in a boiler that might
explode?
Or scratched on a parchment
and placed in an urn
and left 2,000 years
to corrode?
Imagine if my words
bled out, through my pores,
drawn on my skin?
Could I get you to see them then?
Would you wipe them away
before you'd even
begin?
I hold them in.
Oh, I hold them in.
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