I wish I had the guts
to say what is perched
upon the tip of my tongue.

I do not.

So I swallow it all down
like the wretched castor oil
my mother once gave me
when I was sick
and refused to vomit.

I refuse to vomit, still.

Hand clamped over mouth,
I fight the urge to speak.
I fight the unavoidable slip
that will reveal the tender me beneath.

Tongue pressed to cheek,
twisted and tied,
just out of reach
of the proverbial cat,
it waits…

Copyright © 2010 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved


About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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