There are some things I refuse to say. I have the words, lots and lots of them, but they won't come out properly, if at all. I have journals beyond count of very bad poetry, of letters never sent, of thoughts and desires never expressed.
I have been accused of being unnecessarily mean with my words, and my accusers would not be wrong. I can fill others with love, with lust, or with pain with my words, and I use many of them very freely.
Yet some words ... they stick somewhere inside me, in the centre of my soul, and they refuse to be dislodged. Like cancer of the sentence, they rot inside me.