Biting My Tongue
It’s never dramatic—
just a slip,
teeth closing where they shouldn’t,
a brief flare
and that copper taste
before the truth finds breath.
The body learns fast.
This is the smallest injury.
The first concession
to fit the room.
Taken early,
long before names,
long before fingers,
long before anything that can’t grow back.
There are places
where fitting in
costs very, very little blood.
Where propriety is enforced
so cleanly
no one calls it harm.
I comply.
I keep my mouth closed
until the room feels safe again.
What troubles me isn’t the pain.
It’s how easily the flinch becomes pattern.
How natural it could feel
to be the reason
someone else tightens their jaw
and keeps quiet.
The tongue heals.
That’s the danger.