I held my phone like a loaded gun

I held my phone like a loaded gun,

the screen cracked,

drafts of words jagged and incomplete,

lips pressed tight against a locked mouth.

Words curled in my throat like smoke,

a knot tied tight with silence,

I rehearsed their fall —

sentences folded into neat,

quiet packages.

Nearly pressed send, nearly let them fly,

but the phone slipped through fingers,

a dropped note in the abyss.

Some things stay inside,

louder for being unheard,

a ghostly chorus of unsent syllables

ringing hollow in the quiet.