If words could bleed, they wouldn’t always come out as sentences.

Some would drip quietly the ones we never said because pride held our tongue. Some would spill fast anger, sharp and unfiltered, the kind that doesn’t ask for permission. And some would just sit there, thick and heavy, unreadable even to the one who wrote them.

We often think language is harmless because it doesn’t bruise skin. But words don’t need flesh to wound. They settle in memory, replay in silence, and return at the worst times wearing the voice of what we wish we handled better.

If words could bleed, maybe we’d speak softer. Or maybe we’d still speak the same just more aware that not everything meant to be said is meant to stay alive forever.