THE BLADE IN HER MOUTH

She didn’t mean it.

At least, that’s what she always told herself.

But the words came anyway.

Not slowly. Not gently.

They arrived like a flash flood in the desert—violent, sudden, impossible to contain.

Once they started, she couldn’t stop them. She’d try—bite her tongue, clench her fists—but the more she resisted, the harder they pushed.

And the meaner they got.

Her words grew teeth.
They amused themselves, sharpening their edges as they hurled forward.
What started as prickles became thorns, then blades.
They multiplied like weeds after rain. Wild. Fast. Unforgiving.

There was no stopping them now.
They cut through the air and slashed at the souls of anyone who crossed her.

Every sentence was a swing. Every syllable left a mark.

But she didn’t mean it.

Or…

did she?