Another passing word, 

Another passing glance 

That twists my insides 

And grips its cold hands 

On my butterfly heart. 

My mouth stays closed, 

Gulping sighs paired 

With darting eyes, 

But I push it down 

And try my best to forget. 

Each day I hit repeat 

On the day I lived before, 

The same routine of 

Listening and forgetting. 

But sometimes, 

On the rarest of days, 

The remembering bubbles up, 

Until it rises from my throat, 

And I do what I fear the most: 

I speak out.