. . . There are words inside her, waiting to be born.
She feels them growing, forming, becoming thoughts that might later work themselves into sentences to be spoken aloud.
Now, they are nothing but jagged letters with sharp edged corners poking at her, making her uncomfortable. She can’t seem to put them together in any way that softens them.
She soon realizes they will always be hard and sharp. They will always be hard to get out.
It might be easier to keep them inside, let them remain a struggling mess of letters and sounds that will hurt no one but her.