Foot in Mouth
I am a terrible arguer. The points I try to make which seem relevant and logical in my brain come out hurtful and idiotic when put to word. Something happens between synapse and speaking. An invisible foot about the size of my own foot rises to just under my nose. I am sure I could smell it if I just took a whiff. The moment I try to speak, this ghostly stinker inserts itself straight into my flapping jaws. Strangely, I can continue to orate for more than a minute or so before I notice the salty, sick taste. I spit the foot out of my mouth and begin the cowardly process of argumentative retreat. This dot connects to that dot. That dot makes this line true.
“What I really mean is this…” “No, you’ve got me all wrong.”
The foot, at first content to wiggle it’s jammy toes on my tongue, now kicks and probes with each step in my retreat.
“Oh, no you see…” “You’re not listening to me.”
My face would be bloody and bruised if this foot ever became more than an apparition, but this haunting appendage is real enough to me. It’s ghostly beatings leave me cowering on the edge of the bed. Assuming the position, fetal, apologizing to the love in my life.
“I’m so sorry, I’m drunk.” “I’m so stupid.”
Then and only then the foot stops its ravaging attacks. In the silence after the sickly spill of sweat-stink words, it vanishes into the ether from which it came. And as I lie knees to chest, I contemplate damages done. What toll does arrogance and pretentious assumption take on the most important bond in my life? Why can’t I shut the hell up? Why can’t I shut the hell up? Shut the hell up.
