Take the chip off your shoulder, my dear,
your frame looks fairer without it.
You’ve been choking up, lately, I can hear the lies in the back of your throat, they make an awful sound.
I know it’s hard to be honest, I really do.
I struggle myself sometimes, find my tongue tied into odd shapes to accomdate the yarns I’ve spun.
But please, please god tell me what is really at the bottom of this gaping wound, proud flesh, gnarled and raw.
Whatever the answer may be, I will recover. I am the definition of resilient. Like a cockroach, I can’t be killed, not yet, not by you.
I told you this, time and time again, laid it thick into your skull, but your jaw found no movement, save falsities and flattery.
For a week you let me pull your teeth, with pliers, or bloodied fingertips, one by one.
Wrenched from your mouth, your blackened tongue more visible with each tooth further gone.
Gums laid bare and bleeding, you had nothing left to hide; you could barely breathe for the blood in your throat.