There are thoughts I have that
I block from escaping my lips.
Sometimes they try to pry them open,
start a mutiny aboard the ship
riding the waves that roll along my tongue.

It’s rare for them to slip past the dam that
my manners built a long time ago,
but at times tempests and tears reflecting
clenched fists of rage
throw themselves too hard,
like attrition against my eroded mouth,
and they flow past the crevice between my lips.

They drop down the steep edge of the precipice,
ride the violent current down the waterfall,
and crash in the pool of awkward stares and silences.
I even slap my hands against my stubborn mouth,
and feel a pang of betrayal towards the stubborn captain.
But no– it’s too late.
Too late,
too late, and the crew all abandon ship.