Deafening
You sharpen all your words using a series of rare Arkansas stones of varying grit and the finest honing oil around. You might choose to hurl them at will, like a vaudeville performer at a knife girl flattened against a wall, her knuckles white and her teeth ground down to dust. You might choose to hold them in a quiver and loose them as a finishing blow, like a knock-off, ill-intentioned Robin Hood with a martyr complex.
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Why have you chosen to whet your words? Why do the edges of your sentences gleam like new blades? I won’t waste time agonizing over the variables when the common denominator in all these scenarios is me. Occam’s razor was never more apt than this.
No matter your choice, I will take your meaning perfectly.
Your words wound in their own way, but your silence is extraordinarily loud.
