Skepticism drips like rotten milk perspired between my fingers,
Dripping, melting into the pool of this concoction;
A makeshift mix of miscellaneous things,
This recipe that will soon be the mask I will lather on my lips,
A liquid filter,
A cream-based shield
To protect myself from my words.
It catches “BE YOURSELF” before soundwaves are formed,
Absorbs abnormality before its distorted rays
Reach the ears of its recipient,
Before judgements are made
That will crust and crack and shatter the other shields
I have labored to construct.
And then there’s the silence.
The quiet that, for the duration of one moment,
My lips dissect into layers
By virtue of being still.
A layer of lavender relief for the destruction I have evaded;
A layer of chilli-pepper tension for the silence that will soon be
Mushroomed from existence;
A layer of paralyzing, peppermint awareness of
The ground that hums beneath my feet,
Singing, with pride, the words I had not allowed my lips to form.
And here we are,
Trapped for the duration of one moment,
Between layers of silence
That are more honest than our lips will ever be.