No, I was not in exile, but two weeks wrapped in absence I returned to a room full of embittered revelations. I realized I have left in a hurry with no quick missives scrawled in parchment, tucked in the doorstep. I have not swept properly for broken debris I might step on my way back. The urgency of the concern took precedent over good manners and the sudden silence confounded the orphaned room with rumors, innuendos, whispers, anxieties, suspicions and cries.
Today, I return with emptiness and cold wrath greeting me by the fence. Words took shape, took space, took armors and hit me fierce and unsuspecting.
Long ago I defy myself that words will have no power over me. I will not let reckless words get to me, let them injure me. I will refuse to be wounded by an ill turn of phase. I will be invincible to the venoms of words. I will not be polluted by its cold dismissals.
I am wrong.
Words spare no one and they can banish you into the cruelty of lack of sensation where they do not take middle initials but leave you heaving with lesions and craters. They rise and fall to shallow breathing, drowning out the soundlessness of an ache floating in search of a proper name.