Ice

the ice jam of words

long lodged in the back of my throat

has begun to melt

syllable by delicious syllable

that tickle going down

roil in my gut

conscious

kinetic

unsettled

pressure of repressed feeling building

against the shapeshifting mass

that remains

blocking my flow

will I exhale delicate crystals into

my waiting palms

cough playful snowballs

that explode harmlessly on contact

or will I shout ice daggers

that penetrate

sting with icy reproach

draw blood that stains the pristine landscape?

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