The things I want to say
They're specks of dust glinting in the sunlight, they don't bother you much until you run your finger across a piece of furniture, notice the dust bunnies peeking out beneath the bed and that the curtains aren't the light pastel color you once picked out, then they start to irritate you and you just want to get rid of them.
They don't come in fancy phrases, they're raw and unfiltered, harsh and unforgiving, rough and unrelenting
Maybe for this very reason, for the distance they take, to travel out of your mouth, they collide into hazards and red flags, neon warning signs flashing furiously for retreat.
So I retract them just in time and they remain the things I want to say.
But I never do because the things I want to say are the things I feel the most.
I still want to feel.
