Poisoning the Well

Words, sharp as broken glass,
scattered across the floor of every conversation,
we step on them, not noticing
until the bleeding starts.
Every silence speaks louder than the last,
its weight pressing against the chest,
like a promise that was never meant to be kept.

We don’t yell, we simmer—
a slow boil,
a low hum of discontent.
A question asked with the edge of a blade,
but wrapped in the velvet of a smile,
and passive like smoke,
it slips under the door and stains the air.

We say “fine,”
but our eyes betray us.
Their language is raw;
their truth is a widening chasm
we pretend we don’t see.

There are no answers, only echoes—
words that come back hollow,
bouncing off the walls of resentment.
We speak in riddles,
fingers pointing in every direction but our own,
hearts locked behind walls
built from miscommunications
and unspoken hurts.

We wear the armor of defensiveness
like a second skin.
Every attempt to reach
is met with an invisible barrier.
We love, we fight, we withdraw;
but we don’t listen.

And still we ask:
Why does it feel like we’re speaking in a language
neither understands?
Why does love sound like a war,
and kindness feel like a question
that cannot be answered?

In this quiet storm of words unspoken,
we forget
that sometimes the loudest thing in the room
is the silence between us—
the toxic quiet,
growing louder every time
we don’t say what we mean.