What is Not Shared is Lost by Envy Brontë
Anansi sits in the corner of the room,
all eight hands resting on every quill and pen in the world,
turning the human words over like dice
in a master gambler's fist, they roll.
You keep them close, little poet.
Press them to your chest like pearls,
like shells that murmur echos of stories,
like teeth locked together behind lips that never part.
But the weight of the world's words grows,
the story stretching far longer than the old gods anticipated,
I think.
Wisdom ferments in stillness, but rots in secrecy,
bloats, sours,
thickens like honey left to crystallize in the jar.
It was never meant to be hoarded, kept;
only poured, spilled,
licked in small golden droplets from fingers,
gentle sticky treats,
those words of wisdom.
Anansi laughs,
a dry rustle like silk moving against itself in the dark.
"What is not shared is lost."
You feel this simple truth like smoke irritating your throat,
words bubbling up the drowning fountain
wading pool
waterfall of your chest, pressing against your ribs,
desperate for air.
You could hold them in —
the words, the truth,
and let the silence expand in the space, swell,
grow so heavy it bends the room into odd shapes
and any hope of escape is suddenly gone.
Anansi watches, unblinking.
The candles flicker.
The walls warp.
You let go of it all,
and suddenly the words are clear.