I am not the first person you have loved.
Though pretending would be easy; you are not the first person I have looked upon with a mind full of always and a mouth uttering promises I don't know that I can keep.
Our armor, held together by scars issued by the lies of those before, weakens.
Voiceless words erect the wall between us.
I want to whisper them in your bed.
Scream them in your kitchen.
Cry them in your bathroom.
Celebrate them in your arms.
Instead I chew them.
Cutting them to pieces.
Gnawing them endlessly.
Ignoring the bitter taste they leave on my tongue begging to be spit at your feet.
Their flavor lingers on the lips of the man I kiss each night.