Nov 30

Stuffed

A mute among speakers, silent against loud, small against large. Unable to speak her mind, free of arguments. It didn't seem fair to her that her lips parted every time someone spoke a new sentence, waves of words would run over her tongue and clog her throat. Sometimes, they were sweet and smooth against her tongue; they tasted like how she imagined the best fruits to taste. So delicate yet so quick to leave. 
Sometimes, they left so quickly that the aftertaste left only memories. Other times, words tasted bitter and cold and left a dark sense of insecurity upon her tongue, she was so disgusted in them that swallowing them was harder than tasting them. These words were tinted with sorrow, anger, resentment, abandonment, cruelty, and abuse. They tasted like the venom from a snake, a cobra of the finest. 
She was unable to "pick her poison" but instead, poison happened to be one of the most common things she tasted a day, it varied from the words spoken around her. 
Little by little, the pleasurable tastes of sweet, kind, caring, cloying, beautiful, and pleasant words became less and less used. The poison grew inside her; her nutrients becoming off balanced. A girl who lived off of words could not survive off of poison. How was a mute to change the fate?
"Speak the words I want to taste," She thought to herself, "Speak the words that I was meant to taste or do not speak them at all.
Though, even as the girl internally pleaded, no one could hear her sorry attempts to bring back the sweet, sweet flavors. All around her, words of chaos began to be the only language she tasted. No longer could she remember the satisfying and fine tastes at her tongue from beautiful and soft gentle words.
Slowly, day by day, the girl grew weak. Flowing brown hair by her shoulders became white with sickness, her hands became pale with shakiness, her eyes became glazed with dizziness and her stomach became a storm of agony. The tastes of bitterness grew worse; enough to make her choke.
Daily, the words grew worse. More threatening, darker and colder than ever. Her hope began to diminish.
There she lay upon her floor, her hair jagged and white at the floor, her hands rested upon the ground where they no longer shook. Through glassy, unclear eyes did she watch the clock go by whilst her connection to reality was fading. Every breath hurt her body, every breath she inhaled another curse or insult.  
Her time was coming to an end.
"If only I could speak the words myself," She thought as she felt her last moments rising in her chest, "If only.."
The poison had picked her.