I told him I didn’t know what to do.
He said he would figure out something.
I said it was in his hands now.
He said … no better place.
I told him I was scared.
He said I should be, I was fucked.
I wasn’t getting out.
He said he wasn’t giving it back.
For the first time in a long time… I felt safe.
Those words were like cardboard cupcakes, bright, shiny, and beautiful from a distance.
Couldn’t make a dent in them if I tried, even with all the rocks I threw. They held strong.
But when I walked up close, to see what the problem was…
Those cupcakes were not at all what they seemed to be. I stood there alone, playing back his words, and cried.
I’m eating his words. Drinking his words. Smoking his words. Feeling them, blow by blow, sucking them in, having them carved into me from the inside, swallowing them down as they scrape my throat, my insides… slowly, painfully… all the way down to where they will scar my guts and everything I got on the inside.
I could try to hide it, but I don’t care, really.
Let him enjoy his work.
Let me learn my lesson.
They hurt when I swallow them. Just as he said, those words are strong and unyielding, so they don’t easily bend when I urge them deeper inside of me. Their pointy sides dig into me and puncture me. They needle me. They just fucking hurt.
I’m eating those words to teach myself a lesson.
Never take anything sweet from a stranger.