Still
You drink sparkling water because you like tasting the dance barefoot people made on burning ground.
You seal your lips and lock them in - all the playful chaos, bright desperation, biting aliveness, failed exodus, their hiss ringing in your skull.
You suppress them, swallowing their fizz before your tongue gets hijacked and spills the words you don’t mean. They unsettle your stomach, trying always to make a scene.
You feel the acidity, the stir, but it doesn’t matter.
You bury them, over and over, like everything else.
Co-written with ChatGPT (version forgotten), edited by Fable 5.1.