Unfinished sentences fill our home from floor to ceiling.
Half-uttered missives cling to the carpet, blocking the pipe of the vacuum cleaner.
Retracted criticisms entangle themselves in the hairbrushes.
Spewed exclamations drip from the lip of the kitchen sink, the acidic punctuation swallowed.
Bloody single letters stain the cupboards and drawers, only the matter scrubbed away.
Vowels and consonants are imprinted in yellow sweat pools on the pillows, smudged and senseless.
What do we mean to say when we don’t say what we mean?
This post first appeared on Phoning It In: 365 Snaps, 365 Stories, please read the originial post: here
