The Weight of Gentle Words

Why is it so hard

for a mouth

to open wide enough

to let kindness out?

Three small offerings

sit trembling

on the edge of the tongue:

I’m sorry.

I forgive you.

Thank you.

Simple words—

soft as morning light,

yet heavy

as the pride we clutch

like heirlooms

passed down

through generations

of being told

to never bend.

I have watched people

speak whole storms

of gossip,

let envy drip

from their lips

like loose rain gutters,

boast loud enough

to drown the quiet truth

that sometimes

we just don’t know.

Sometimes

we are afraid

to be wrong.

So we armor ourselves

with arrogance,

with rumors,

with noise.

But love—

love was never meant

to shout.

Love walks softly

through crowded rooms,

placing grace

in the hands

of strangers.

Love says:

I see you.

I hear you.

I honor your breath.

In this world

so I choose

another language—

one stitched

from mercy

and everyday kindness.

Because somewhere

someone is holding on

to the last thin thread

of hope.

And they might survive

one more day

simply because

they heard

a gentle word

spoken

at the right time.

So I say it freely now:

I’m sorry.

I forgive you.

Thank you.

And I pray

my mouth never again

finds these words

too heavy

to carry.