The power of words

Words…those little splinters unleashed from the charged folds of your corporeal secretions, butterflies transfigured from your crawling egos, scents pervaded through the latticed windows of your haloed bosom.

Words. Utterances, whispers, accentuations, dented sharpness, velvety tenderness, crispy delicacy, impertinent ruthlessness. Instruments of ransacking torture or of healing redemption, indelible echoes that linger on you with their uneven trickling or their tingling dullness. Written, spelled, tossed, spilled, bled, carved, disfigured, unfolded, assumed, omitted, urged, denied, gemstones blossomed out of transient instants. And the obstinate memory, this multilayered ocean of prehensile tentacles, unceasingly engraves itself, accompanied by inky tears, harrowing tremors and irreversible melodies, with words, words, words.

Words, my aching catharsis, my invaluable torment. Isn’t all there is, your intimacy?
All the chemical synapses that concoct your permanent state of mind -thinking, relentlessly thinking- are resumed in a personal voice of soundless letters with appreciable or priceless value that, second by second, dominate your whole existence. There is no way out of it, so of you (not in life, anyway). Ergo, heavily pregnant with interpretations, dissections, deformities, and decipherable (non)senses, you never stop from playing your erratic hopscotch inside this unsolvable labyrinth of hieroglyphs.

A bit obscure, slightly unfair, a bit demure, slightly debonair.

I am awfully faulty when it comes to discerning nuances and textures of surrounding spaces, ostentatious vestments, tangible vogues; it all constitutes a hazy and discardable medley in my intrinsic compartments. But I am despicably accurate when it comes to words; the remembrance of integral fragments of crude or evasive, oral or scribbled communications is the most limpid piece of my indispensable yet burdening trove. Dancing, fluttering, hovering, letters compose my emotional sight, their fluorescent and wounded by impact significances dig their way in, deep, down, dormant.

Irremediable effect they have. The only solution when it all becomes too much to endure without damaging your sanity is oblivion, I reckon. As I am never capable to absolve our spontaneous, perishable, impetuous and regretful tirades, I live with it all, dragging it along, all those symbols flowing from within as reverberating arrows of fire or ice in my heart. Those words crushed between the soft walls of your mouth, your tongue, your teeth and the air between us, yet still edgy and potent, still marring me with their inflammable power. Thus, I attempt to forget as I can’t forgive or beautify, because my greatest defect is my unmitigated sincerity, framed too clearly in my never overly affected as to be cured, so denied vanity.

It should work one day…forgetfulness is a natural law of (the) humanity, that’s what they say. Would be such a lovely cliché, at least in this direction to rip off my genuine peculiarity and acquire such a comforting domino. If I don’t manage to protect me from thee, what will I ever be to me other than your undeserved victory?

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