Strangle.

Do I hold these words? Do I withdraw these sentences from the shoulders that they wrap around? You hold those you love in embrace what it is you desire. I hold those near with pros and cons and shameful vernacular, not by its quality, but its purpose…its intent. And what intent! To break the limbs that bind passion at swollen fingertips. My words are my hands, the sentences my arms that wrap around you and pull you close. Cheek to cheek - two there - too close - to find what connects them. The syntax that shadows me is not my house as it is my cell. Fortressing me, suffocating me with this diction that strangles without release, and maims all that fall under its inexorable tongue. I too hide behind these pretentious white caverns but it is not the poison that I drink. It is not my blood that seeps from these wounds. And although they are my words that are wrapping around you, it is your love that strangles me.