The Words Come When Others Hear Them

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How does a writer write from a broken place, from a place where her words fall on ears that do not hear?

She doesn’t.

The words get stuck and impede the breath, lodging just at the base of the tongue near the the vocal chords, choking her as they neither move up and out or back down, acidic and bitter as bile.

The hands become paralyzed.

The mind barren and dry.

The eyes wander, searching, but they cannot see in the dark.

The fingers hover over the keys…a s d f  j k l semi-colon…but where else do they land?

Her chest moves with each breath, inhaling it expands, exhaling it deflates.

The heart beats despite itself and its heaviness–brick-like but hollow all at once. A paradox she may have once thought of exploring but now she does not care.

Only healing can bring back the words.

Healing comes from being heard.

Time is a healer.

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