The Anatomy of Restraint

My tongue curls in on itself, an unreasonable fist too stubborn to unclench. Pulling punches, muscle memory it never owned, saves what little flesh hasn’t folded to thicker skin in the game. Yet here it is, unraveling, slowly surrendering to necessity— callused, unwelcome softening in a mouth that remembers nothing gentle, nothing easy. The grip loosens only to recoil, a reflex meant to protect, now an ill-fit for the words meant for escape— stripped of venom, too tired to be anything, but honest. And still, the flesh twists, contorts to dodge old habits, words that never leave clean— teeth sink in, a reminder of what stays hidden underneath a thickening hide, each unspoken syllable recoiling back, gaining weight until the tongue is too heavy to lift— its heft like a bruised knuckle, an echo of every blow held back, then finally, the weight snaps, and the tongue lashes out, too late, too raw— spitting truth like broken teeth, each word a splintered bone, sharp enough to bleed, but swallowed back down, leaving nothing behind but the taste of iron and regret— a quiet that crushes the chest with all the words that could have saved it.