Mommy and Daddy once told me to talk louder when I'd simply twisted my tongue. They were too lazy to try understand. Or too uncaring.
Daddy never really made sense when he replied to me. He somehow took my words, swallowed them like a black hole and out birthed something else entirely.
Mommy would sit there with an answer behind her eyes glazed with pity and sighs. She waited for her turn while I neared the edge, one comment at a time.
I never told them the truth. Never corrected them. Because the most important was to move along. Move forward and it could be erased. Let go.
I stopped telling people about being mute. Moving along wasn't their only option. They wouldn't understand. I'm simply scared of breaking. Or simply lazy.
