Suffocation isn't enough to kill me.
But words are.
They sink deeper, burrowing,
echoes in a hollow room.

They fracture the soul,
leaving splinters that ache,
long after the voices have faded.

Whispers that cling like shadows,
draining color from the world,
each letter a blade,
carving wounds invisible, yet unhealing.

Silent screams, unheard cries,
a heart bruised and tender.
No air can heal what silence breaks.
In the end, it's the words
that leave me breathless.

Suffocation might take my breath,

but words take everything else.
They hollow me out,
piece by piece,
until there's nothing left to take,
nothing left to break.

.    .    .