Translucent and paper-thin,
the current suit of skin whispers
across splinters--
bayonets of bone--
poised as if to pierce flesh. 

But these overgrown bones
crumble
under pressure 
and, bluff called, withdraw without drawing blood
leaving only bruises
like threats
blooming in black and blue.

When speaking clearly gets too hard, 
my words stumble,
hung up on the hills and valleys
of the scars that carve
deep fissures into my tongue.

The widening gaps between my teeth
pinch pink lips 
as if to say, "Bite your tongue" 
or "Make a long story short"
suggestions I've heard many times before.

I'm always sorry
before I'm done speaking; 
my apologies chase
the sentences I swallow 
back down my throat.

Heavy-lidded eyes ache, 
so dry they're going blind,
but my perspective changed with my vision--
maybe living in darkness,
I'll finally see?

As my voice and the light fade,
the surrounding silence grows
thick and weighty, like
the things I don't say
or the heavy words of men.