I Have Known the Blade of My Own Tongue

I have known
how a word,
just one—
sharpened by the heat
of timing, tone, and storm—
can lacerate
more than silence ever could.

I have carried that blade in my mouth.
Felt the way youth
lets it slip,
how rage once gave it a home.

But I have also lived long enough
to choose.

To place it down.
To speak,
instead,
in bridges.
In balm.

In offerings of peace
as protest
against my own potential
to unravel someone else.

Not because I am good,
but because I am tethered—
to something brighter
than my shadow.