I’m stuck inside the breath that lingers in the air, post insult.
When there’s nothing left to say because you’ve said quite enough and
my throat is dry.
Cheeks are warm and fingers are dripping onto my wrist. 
I wish I was beneath
a retort, a filthy response 
but I’m just an angry girl who knows a lot of words. 
So I launch some of the best words I know at you. I pick them like berries,
pull sharp stars from the sky and hurl them hoping to cut flesh, pull blood.
I hate silence. You always said you know you’re comfortable with someone
when you can be silent, I hate it. At least when we’re shouting we’re saying something,
feeling something. Being something, I heave every toxin out of my body onto you.
I always liked watching other people fight, 
probably so I can learn just how. Is it just now I realised I haven’t drunk a thing today.
Maybe that’s why my head is throbbing, maybe it’s the shouting. 
That ‘I have nothing left’ shouting that makes your voice shrink inside itself.
How desperate humans can be, how we’re all really the same. 
Why is it always you that calms down first, you that caves and me that feels guilty.
Why is it always at the end of an argument you realise none of it matters.
It’s cold and dark and smooth here like an old fashioned blackboard.
‘I hate who I was five minutes ago.’ 
How do I wipe away everything I’ve ever said? 

Molly Thompson

Molly Thompson is a bisexual 23 year old Creative Writing graduate and aspiring screenwriter from Devon. She’s passionate about mental health, social justice, feminism, and really cute dogs.

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