Unspoken

Bit the toast, a sharp crack

and then that dull, familiar ache,

just under the tongue, the thin sack

of skin, a place I don't often make

acquaintance with. Looked in the glass.

Strange, how much is hidden there:

the pale, blue-green veins, a mass

of delicate threads, almost bare.

The frenulum, taut and white, a rope

anchoring it all, this soft floor.

So much going on, beyond all hope

of easy speaking, or closing the door

on what's tucked away, a secret map.

Even the smallest scrape can let you know

what sits beneath, inside the trap

of silence, where the feelings go.