Speech less words…

In every relationship, there are times when you will have nothing to talk about. Are you ok with that??? Or are you like me, bothered when there’s “nothing” to talk about??? Though, it’s normal. The silence can feel so strange, so cold. Listen to my silence…

image

What happens when the talking ends??? When nothing else is said. Where do the words go???

Do they just disappear, cease to exist or are they only hidden out of sight???

Do they ever come back??? Will they surface when they’re ready??? Should I call them to come back??? Do they know when to come???

Will they come back soon??? Are they gone for very long??? Or will all my hair be gray before their return???

Will I just be left waiting???

Will there be a sign or a sound??? How will I know once they’ve returned??? Will they still be silent, will there still be silence???

Will I hold them back or let out too many with no concern??? Will he use them??? Will he listen to them???

Will he understand them or not even try??? Will he hear the words through the sounds??? Or is it easier to listen to the words when they sound like nothing???

Just a thought turned to a question turned to a post.

Advertisements

Help…

Come. Find me in my most exposed state. Uncovered and unconscious and unknown. Take me in with your eyes, first. See my flaws. My tattered exterior. My torn flesh.

Breathe the scorn that aerates around me. Can you stand the smell of brokenness? Or is it too strong? Can you handle the sound of judgment surrounding me? Or is it too loud?

Will you stay with me until I awaken? Will you stay to see if I awaken? Or are you too afraid of the eyes fixed on my contorted limbs? Are you afraid those eyes will turn towards you? 

Are you too afraid to lift me up? Too scared to cover me with your clothes. Too scared to wrap me in your arms. Are you afraid of getting dirty? Are you afraid you might break my fragile body? Or afraid you may break a nail?

I lay nearly lifeless on the curb.

Do you stop to see if I’m alright? Do you stop to ask who I am? Or do you not stop at all?

Is it my fault I was thrown away? Or is that how life dealt my hand? Is it your fault I’m still laying here? Or is it not your hand that should be held out?

You came. You found me in my most exposed state. I’m uncovered, unconscious, unknown. You see my bare flesh, battered and dirty. My eyes closed.

Now what?