Why I Think The Way I Speak

I never had the patience for pretty words, for the kind that tie a ribbon around a scream. I speak like the barstool wobbles— crooked, stained, but honest. the world don't care for polish, it spits out the soft and swallows the steel. so I talk in rust and gravel, in cigarette burns and busted knuckles. I've seen men lie with silk tongues while their hands crawled with spiders. I've seen love get dressed up just to leave through the back door. so I keep it raw, keep it sharp, keep it breathing— because words should taste like the life that made them.