Where do the words go?

Sometimes it feels like I cannot stop them from coming out — like one of those cartoons where the dam starts to leak, and there aren’t enough fingers and toes to plug the holes, and not enough bubblegum, either. From every direction, the words fly. Then sometimes, the intense pressure in my chest compresses my breaths and the words will not come.

Where do they go, all my lost words?

I can’t inhale fully, without feeling like I may burst, but there’s no relief from the things that will not come. Half-formed, blurry, rubbing my eyes doesn’t help so I stare at my fingers and place the blame.

When will they come, all my thoughts and dreams?

Sometimes there are just too many, unbound and unconnected and nothing makes sense. But there they sit, writhing on the page where I leave them, unsure how to wrap them into sensical sentences.

But today they hide away, where I can’t quite see them, from around the corner or in dark spaces. And I wonder where they go, when I can’t quite find them.

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Alex

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