A random paragraph I wrote, most of it in my head whilst walkin up my driveway from the bus:

The words left a bitter taste dripping from my mouth. I was a warrior, and my tongue was my sword. Normally I wielded it cautiously, but this time I struck forward and made it hurt. My pain would be known. I had breathed it in all this time, now I exhaled, slapping him in the face with it. I struck at him like a venomous snake with the syllables I had so carefully painted in my mind, in the air, with my mouth's brush. Now it was *his* turn, and every time my voice rang I meant to slice through the air between us and drive my katana into his very core. Retaliation by impact leaves tears biting both faces of pain, and I know things can never be the same again.

And a reply to it I wrote later:

Staring at the floor, I realize that every time my adversary flinched under my daggers, there was a backlash. My heart was scarred just the same as his. Maybe volcanoes wouldn't erupt if they understood the rumbling of the earth. But hot lava flies anyway, darkening the skies with the ashes of guilt and mistakes, and the lava falls like rain, scorching right through the skin into the soul. He fades into black as a nightmarish reality forces me to fully grasp that every action has a reaction; there's a consequence every time you open your mouth or take a step. Some are trivial enough to be brushed away, but not this time. Words like impaling knives don't leave wounds easy to heal. My crime was bitter. My punishment unknown. But, for now, I breathe in its shadows and soak in my guilt. I wonder if he'll walk in, bringing the breeze that will whisper the soft, unspoken words of sorrow between two forgiven lovers. I wonder if the tears raining "I'm sorry" are too late to quench the drought. I resist the urge to fall into the gray sleep. All my life is written in pen, and there's no way to erase all these memories that haunt my mind. I bite the weaponry that resides in my mouth and feel the blood dripping off my lip. I bite harder, hoping speech will become a lost ability. Blue-eyed skies shut, only to have flashes of lightning and the feel of rumbling thunder stare me right in the face. Time trickles like a melting icicle, giving me one last image of a flood leaving the ground bare as flesh. I shake my head, wanting to block out every scene. I just want to do the only thing I have left to do; I wait.