No matter what anyone says, words are worse than sticks or stones because you can’t pull them out. You can’t forget, and there’s nothing in the world that can soften the heat of syllables and consonants and vowels wreaking havoc beneath the pillows of your lungs or the curves of your heart. Words leave the invisible scars, the ones that litter the backs of your eyelids, the soft lining of your throat, the nooks and crevices that run from your hips to the hollows of your knees. They form in places you didn’t even know you had inside you. There aren't stitches to heal these kinds of wounds, no drug to numb the pain. Perhaps time softens and smooths the edges, but they’re still there like fingerprints visible only underneath ultraviolet light. They still sneak up on you when you’re the most vulnerable, when you’re not thinking about anything at all. The most beautiful thing you could ever say to someone else is “I love you.” But even this can’t act as a sunscreen against the ever agonizing, “I don’t care.” And that’s the thing about words. They always land somewhere very deep, like land mines in the skin that go off the second after it’s too late. Another charm for your bracelet, a thousand tiny deaths.
As much as I love words, as much as I immerse myself in them, find myself fascinated by them, I hate them too. They make it too easy to never forget.
