A hand covers my mouth, and another reaffirms the grip. All three belong to me. I fear that once they escape the lid and tumble into the realm of nothingness that surrounds me, my words will be wasted. I will be left devoid of a small yet significant part of me. I would rather swallow them than cough them out into the pool of blood that is sure to follow. Undigested by the body, and unappreciated by the environment, that is where they belong- in an agonising amalgamation of what is within and without. Hanging in the air like the last breath of a soldier that just got shot on the border with his heart struggling to pump through the hole that pierces the silence where it may not be heard, my words argue with themselves.

It rises in my throat- a mere vibration. My tongue does wonders to it- forming every syllable with a little sway like a paint brush dancing on the paper to form a masterpiece- lightly and slowly, taking its time, enunciating. It is low and barely audible till it reaches my lips. From there it could take two directions. My mouth parts, very gently, letting the world know my thoughts, for they are sure to make an impact or at least give me the satisfaction that I tried. Or, it could decide that my thoughts are too precious to be revealed, if not just too vain, and take control of my brain (and not vice-versa.) 

I choose to believe that the human mind, as complex as it is, does not partake in the even more intriguing process of conversing, for there are so many individuals in this world that regret what they say, and not just once. Words are precious. They can not be taken back and they can be the best gift for someone. But the tongue can also be a weapon- for a sword may fatally wound a person but a word can rob them of their dignity and what is worse is obvious. 

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