There are words inside me, crawling under my skin, wrapped around every nerve and fiber, entwined tightly.

Taught, tense as a piano wire, they vibrate when plucked, strummed by a trigger so that the sounds seep to the fingers.

Sound has harmonies, objects are connected by it, even at a distance, and when we pluck the cord in one place, setting up its vibration, other objects start to shake.

A concord, a sympathy of feelings that overwhelm, piling one on top of another so that I am lost, drowning in them.

So I cut the page, let them out, spilling on to the page to live a life of their own, spread over a million eyes, powerful, and powerless at the same time.

© Emma Steel