Words, like the thief you were so many you’ve stolen from me. Words I’ve laced with sweet hellos and hearty hahas; words sowed from the plumpest of seeds, filled up, watered, nurtured, laden, grown; they billowed with love and bore oh so many lovely fruits but you just wasted their sweetness on the ground. We sortov ended with the loneliest of all — goodbye — and even that had been stolen because ’twas not for me to give.
Words, my words, how wasted they’ve been on you. I once thought they looked good on you: it fit a T ’round yer waist, on your shoulders, down your bottom. I may have not conjured anything as magical, as all-knowing, and yet so unbelievably naïve. I regret every single one I gave away. Every. Single. One. Which I gave so deeply, and so freely. If you could please sir, I take them all back, and I would if I could but that’s not the way words work.
What a joke these had been for you — do you still give out words you don’t really mean, I wonder? You had such a way with words too, perhaps wanting to match what I’d given you. But yours had been poor imitations, weightless, pointless, fat with promise but wanting in the delivery department. That’s not the way it works in my book, you give your word and you honor it. If only that’s the way the world operates, but it does not. Guilty too but it’s not as heavy as those resting upon you.
Words. Your word, mine, his, hers, here, there, then, now, a little high, a little low. I sift through them trying to find the one which rings the truest. That has always been my signature, my cup of tea, my reason for being. I put weight in words, and I delivered as I’ve promised. Would you be able to say the same for yourself, with conviction, like you mean it? It prob’ly is a terrifying thought for you, to stand in your own truth. That’s why your words don’t ring true. The words in here, they’re the truth, and they’re my truth.
Yes, they’re mine. It’s no longer yours for the taking.
***
Pictured: Yeah, a pen doodle
Finally Dee 