Plastic Words

There are words

that remember for us—

words like an eruption 

we could not stop, 

the ones we emptied

like pockets full of stones,

the ones that carried

what we could not bear.

And then there are the others.

The ones shaped

to look like truth,

smooth as river glass,

harmless in the hand.

Plastic words.

Weightless.

Bloodless.

Convenient.

I have used them.

Held them up like offerings

without ever touching

the heat beneath.

I have spoken

near the wound—

close enough to gesture,

far enough to stay clean.

I have written

from the perimeter,

commented

without committing,

crafted sentences

that sounded honest—

costing me nothing.

Because real words—

the ones with memory—

cut on their way out.

They drag the body with them.

They return us

to the quake,

to the wind,

to the moment

we first broke open.

Plastic words do none of this.

They do not tremble.

They do not ache.

They do not remember

because they were never there.

And I have hidden behind them,

let them stand in for me,

let them speak

in my stead—

a ventriloquist’s truth,

a safe approximation

of being known.

But every time I return

to the real words—

the costly ones—

I feel the edge again.

Not as deeply,

but sharp enough

to know the difference.

It is easier

to sound honest

than to be known.

Easier to craft

than to confess.

Easier to write

than to reveal.

But only one of these

remakes us.

Only one

remembers.

© Ron Simpson Jr.