I was once a talker,
Because my words can do summer salts.
It was the only way
I was ever respected,
Ever truly heard.
Or so I told myself,
If my words were a book,
The most I got was a glancing skim.
When I saw the truth,
I stopped talking, interacting,
I put the poison of aimless rage on my mouth.
And I spat.
All of the half-interested interactions,
I did not discriminate
Hate on the kind
Hate on the cold.
When I deflated,
Empty of bubbling darkness,
I find myself peaceful in quiet.
And tired by talking,
To even my strongest allies and friends.
I am mending, healing, and growing
the wounds unseen and unspeakable.