I ate my words as soon as they spewed out uncontrollably and
haphazardly.
Vile words that invaded the room – words full of insensitive
bile, undigested fragments, and aggression.
Much like the putrid smell of vomit, my words raided the air
space and lingered restlessly.
They attacked the recipient of my words with a stench of
decomposition,
And decayed his outer layer of trust, affection, and
confidence.
The words that spilled out in a moment of frustration, a
moment hoping to entice and force the receiver of the words into action,
instead pelted across his aura with an acidity damaging to his heart, mind, and
very being.
An act of desperation, of a woman fishing for words, for
answers, for a fight, instead threw the most critically lethal words which in
turn finished the battle without a single confrontation.
The piercing sting of my words is not easily reparable nor is
its biting acidity something I intend to overcome quickly.
The rancid odor of vomit undeniably loiters before restoring
its victims to normalcy.
And while the fabric layers of a damaged loom of carpet will
take steaming, deep cleansing, and special treatment to clear its contamination,
with enough love, grace, and will, I pray my words will also be forgiven.
