I am the queen of words,
and their slave.
You come in, and vomit
your words in front of me.
I kneel, sorting through
the sharp shards of words
that cut my fingers,
the dull, slimy words
that choke me. I construct
some kind of story from them,
we construct some kind of story
I am the witchbitch that built the tower,
and the princess trapped there,
and the wyrm that guards it.
You wrap your arms around your words
and hold them back from me.
I offer you a hundred nuanced shades
of meaning, and still you keep
your mouth closed, lips tight over
clenched teeth, words trapped
in the darkness.
I am the old woman holding out the apple,
and the girl who bites it.
There are words smeared dripping
over the walls of this small room,
there is a stink of them, rotting
in the corners.
There are words floating free
like glistening insects,
rising on shafts of light.
I will make your story.
Linked to Poets United, and to Real Toads, for a Real Toads prompt – words –