Sugar Coated Silence

The words twist in the space
located between the sensitive gadgets
that can't stand to hear them.

They twist themselves into shapes
of malicious monsters that lash out,
unaware that every squished ambition
is a word that didn't have to be said.

They promenade on my tongue elegantly,
ready to abandon my cigarette stained mouth
until the clock strikes midnight,
and they unravel themselves
back into a mess of amorphous lines
struggling to make sense out of themselves.

This is the trouble with words.

Happy can be happy
if the pallet allows it.
Or, in the case of unrequited love,
it can lie to itself
like a childless mother
refusing to bear the burden of loss.

Emotions are saccharine when spoken aloud.
Sure they taste good but is it worth cancer?
The diabetic mind strives on these words,
but I prefer my cancer with sugar.

So as words twist in the space

located between the sensitive gadgets

that can't stand to hear them,

my body writes novels of sugar coated silence.