Toothed

If my words are toothed
they were born that way,
dreaming of howling
before they clawed out of my chest.

It may not be wise,
but it’s less painful

than seeing them
crawling beneath my skin
when I look in the mirror.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash




Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United. "To Speak Up or Stay Quiet?"