My words are as hot as the fake orange hair covering the nuclear button ready to blow at any time. If it made a sound it would squeak.
My words are as empty as the streets once filled with protesters ready for change, but now drinking their lattes in front of their computers. Time to refresh.
My words are as explosive as the answer to the texts, “how are you?” that friends and family send without any clue that I live my life inside out. Blood pours from unprotected veins.
Your words heal and fight and love and drive and make beautiful. And I am silent.