The Thing We Never Say

The thing we never say

waits to ambush good intentions, hides in the tangle that constitutes the lovers, determines the angle of one limb enfolding another, navigates the crush of armies and orgies, shimmers in the instant when the villainess repents.

The thing we never say

is hard as Chinese algebra, soft as frost-whiskered innuendos furring broken tongues, snared somewhere out there on the ass end of a stutter, dot dot dotting an ellipsis.

The thing we never say

meets resolve with equivocation in the awkward in-between of almost was. It has to do with pent-up rage, with passion cut off at the roots, choked down and metastasized into molten venom, excavating entrails to make an echo-chamber-womb for all the stillborn rage unuttered.

The thing we never say

isn’t even true. Still, it’s desperate to be heard, to tear the ceiling down around us all and shatter any semblance of goodwill.

The thing we never say is…