Sorry

As the neck rolls and sighs escape my clammy hands, I say not what I mean, I mean not what I say, I call in whispers and swallow my innards. My head is filled with cotton and floating lines until they are drowned and, at least in that moment, the space is clear so that everything quiets and hangs.
A thin wispy noose restrains it all from hurling outwards and vomiting and dripping in the most ignominious of ways. It is tied by children in their fenced schoolyards and alcoholics crying for their salvation. It is woven by siblings sprouting their wings as mechanics are comforting their engines with Valerian root.
I wish it would mold itself like clay, like cookie dough. Instead, it fastens my jaw shut, so that there is only one word to be said sincerely, if indistinctly.

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