Weighing Words
The words are weighed on my tongue
a delicate measurements taken to see if
this one is too heavy and will sink,
if those will cut like paper,
or if that string together might float.
If they taste too much like fiberglass around the edges,
sword like steel,
I bite down, and chew them so my insides slice apart rather than yours.
At times, my gums bleed,
ulcers appear,
but everything eventually recovers.
This process has taken years of practice
because for a time
I didn’t care if the words I threw cut, burned, maimed.
I didn’t care about the weight they carried,
the strength of sounds.
Bricks smashing through glass windows.
Alcohol induced rages and screaming in the middle of the street.
I lit matches and set fires to bridges I thought were made of cement
only to find they were parchment paper
and burned faster without fuel.
And so, when I am in your blast radius
I watch your tongue sharpen and take aim,
because you do not give yourself time to hold the words
to feel their weight in your mouth.
You throw daggers like baseballs,
and I am reminded that this is who I could have become
had I continued down my father’s path.
So in those moments
rather than weigh my own words against yours,
I consider whether or not to stay.
Lynne Schmidt (she/her) is a mental health professional in Maine. Her unpublished memoir, The Right to Live: A Memoir of Abortion has received Maine Nonfiction Award and was a 2018 PNWA finalist, while her poetry has received the Editor's Choice Award for her poem, Baxter, from Frost Meadow Review, and her chapbook, Dead Dog Poems, was honorable mention from Pub House Books. Her work has appeared in Soft Cartel, RESIST/RECLAIM, Royal Rose, Maine Dog Magazine, Alyss Literary, Her Kind Vida, and others. When given the choice, Lynne prefers the company of her three dogs and one cat to humans.
Twitter: @LynneSchmidt @Abortion Chat
Facebook: Lynn(e) Schmidt
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