S**t Stained Teeth

Words are s**t.

I keep my teeth neatly aligned and pressed together as that blister of emotion swells beneath the skin; when I lance it and allow the blood and puss to soak into paper, neatly crossed and dotted lines just seem like so much more worthless pretense.

We assign a few choice syllables to represent the heavy feeling beneath our abdomen, the word 'sad' to convey the crushed, shattered feeling of impotence. These few rational series of scratches on paper are 

unable to represent the ideas I need them to.

When an infant realizes his intense displeasure, when the thing that he desires with an inexhaustible emotional capacity is taken from him, that infant is able to convey this feeling in exact detail -- that scream, the piercing wail of incredible loss, pours from every part of that child's body. Arms flail, eyes close, legs stiffen; 

the emotion is absolute and completely consuming. 

I can't use these s**t words to share that level of emotion. There is no way for me to transcribe my impotent shriek, my bitter scream that ravages my lungs.

I find myself envying the infant;

wishing that I could voice my loss in a manner as perfectly primitive.

I need you to feel it also, if only for a moment, 

if only till you turn the page.