There’s something stuck inside me.
Almost like the fine bone off a moist fish
Deboned, but for anomalies.
Or the hair of an unassuming chef,
Cordoned off, but for this escaped convict.
Maybe even the excess cinnamon
That coats itself into a stoic red blanket,
denying me a simple swallow.
Every now and then;
And vanishes such that its existence itself
Becomes an unfathomable possibility.
And free days of unperturbed comfort,
with the obvious predictability of a time-tested truth,
It shifts again,
And gets stuck with an almost vehement ferocity.
As if to punish
The transgression of doubt
At the nakedly displayed truth.
I tried to regurgitate it,
But what was already devoured,
Was either digested
Or imbibed into the very blood running through my veins
Leaving behind wretched echoes of pointless retching.
I tried to write about it,
But when words took shape;
It lost it's.
And these letters ran around like mice in my innards,
Incoherent steps of spaces and words
amplifying the insubstantial ache.
I tried to talk about it
And they sat patiently by.
Unable to stay silent in my silence;
What was stuck inside them
Came pouring out.
Mine stuck a bit deeper into me.
So I search,
Maybe for someone who can bear my silence,
Or with a deafening silence of their own.
So that mine is pulled out;
Inappropriate sucking noises
Like that of a vacuum:
And I can be unstuck again.