I have tried so hard to hold my own words hostage; to keep them locked in a vault, chained with deniability.
But this morning, I am tired of negligence and they are tired of advocating for your endless disputes.
I try so hard not to say your name anymore, it has become heavier baggage; yes, I am aware of the worth of it’s weight.
But I hate that your name has become a bragging right.
I want to know when my worth became the equivalent of a swear jar.
When did my body become an hour glass to flip over for your own amusement to pass the time?
When did my voice become gasoline that will last you for miles before returning with the need to be refilled?
When did I become a pit stop to rest your opaque thoughts before traveling on?
And who taught you to use your voice in a way that makes me want to listen? What about your chest makes my head want to rest on it? Where did you come from, and why haven’t you left yet?
And how much of your time are you actually willing to spend on the courtesy of my words?
© 2022 Xandra Lang