The burning starts in the back of my throat working its way, spreading through my mouth. My hands twitch in my lap, the impulse to itch the burn off my tongue pulsing, throbbing through my fingers. I try to swallow down the pain, choking on the words and unspoken protests.

I glance up at him, his dark brown hair tousled and his eyes wild. They look broken, his eyes. Broken and sad he wears his eyes like a mask while I drown in my confessions. I draw up my limbs, the ones with bruises that decorate my legs in polka dots, and tuck them underneath my chin. They shortly become a pedestal carrying my head that I can no longer hold on my own.

I feel like I’m swimming, my head fuzzy and light flying through the clouds tasting morning dew on my tongue. Nothing makes sense, nothing is constant but the burn left on my tongue and the heavy blood pooling under my skin, spreading across my cheekbone. I hadn’t seen his hand this time, my eyes were drooping and I was fighting to stay alert.

I relinquish my power to him. My face, legs, tongue all throb and pulse with my beating heart and my ears split from the noise. Like a screeching owl, a diesel filled truck, moans of a dying spirit his words pound me over and over again. But it all fades into the background when it comes to the itch on my tongue. Swallow down the words.

He’s too busy to pay any attention to me anymore, so I draw up my hands and work them slowly up my lips, past my teeth, to my tongue. It’s so dry for a second I think I’m touching sand; that all my teeth have been ground into fine dust and spill out my blue lips. I hold my tongue, dry as sand paper, for just a second longer. And then I start to scratch.

I start to scratch the words off, the pleas that have gone unheard. And it’s like I’m Egypt, the river of blood coursing down my throat. My nails cut pass the muscle and mutilate my tongue, pieces falling off unto the couch decorating it with a shade of tainted red. One thing is for sure; I’ll never speak again.