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These words I hold inside bring a bitterness to my tongue,
Like the bile that rises in my throat.
These words I could speak, but they would hurt you.
It would be as if I were running a knife into your abdomen,
Tearing your flesh with my fingers.
And still you persist in asking. You tell me to be honest
And that honesty is always the best policy.
I want to be kind.
I don’t want to hurt you. And I think that
These words carry that potential.
And still you persist in asking.
Do not cry, my angel, at the utterance of these words.
Close your ears and do not hear them.
You told me to tell you.