A continuation to the Weekend Nation column “Bitter words and the bitter end.”

That came out a bit dark, but I mean it.

I wanted to write about all the words we have uttered that should have remained thoughts.

Words we said to people that stung and stayed, belittled and degraded. Words that would serve best as torture methods. Words said in anger and in haste, and without a thought.

Words that brought forth a bitter end.

A premature end that could have been a lifetime of happiness, stolen moments, and beautiful nights.

Oh, what we would do to swallow those words and have them rest in our stomachs like a hot rock. Better that than the stunned look, like you had slapped them across the face, and the tears that seemed to never end because they could not understand how such words could emit from your mouth and not burn your tongue with their vulgarity. We have all said them to people we claim to love. We have seared the ears of many with thoughtless phrases and uninvited scrutiny.

Words that you wish you could scrape from the air and swallow back down, like poison you didn’t mean to give, but you did. And it wasn’t just a sentence or two. It was the tone, coldness, and disregard. How could you? You ask yourself later after long after they’ve left. You sit with the ghost of the conversation, and replay every detail. You realize and know fully well the damage was done in those seconds, and no amount of apologies will stitch back what you’ve torn apart.

Some wounds don’t heal with time. They slowly fester. And it’s not just the person you hurt who carries them. You too carry them in your chest like a stone, and a weight that shifts and makes you stumble, but never enough to make you fall.

If only we could have learned or known sooner, before those words left our lips, to pause. To bite our tongues until they bleed rather than let that venom escape. Because once spoken, no matter how much we wish otherwise, we cannot un-say them. They are out there, in the world, doing exactly what we sent them to do. One thing I have learned over the years of being a hasty speaker is to let my words pass through three gates. Is it true? Is it necessary that I say this? What is the intention behind the words I have chosen?

And sometimes, the worst thing we ever did was speak.

But the silence that follows is not kind either.

It is loud. Deafening. It is filled with everything you should have said instead. With gentler phrases, softer approaches, and pauses that never came.

We like to tell ourselves that people should be stronger. They should not let words affect them so deeply. But words are how we name the world. How we understand ourselves. How we know whether we are loved or tolerated, cherished or endured. A single sentence can undo years of reassurance. A careless remark can reopen wounds someone worked tirelessly to close.

And the cruelest part is that we often hurt the people who trusted us most with their tenderness. The ones who believed we would be careful. The ones who handed us their softest parts without armor. We knew where it would hurt. We knew exactly what to say. And in our anger, we chose precision over mercy. Suddenly they wonder if they were ever enough. If all the love was conditional. If the kindness was performative. They search for hidden meanings, and confirmation of their worst fears. And sometimes, they find it.

We underestimate how long words linger. We think time will dilute them, and maybe soften their edges. But some words age like scars. They fade, yes, but never disappearing. They become part of the story someone tells themselves about who they are and what they deserve. And that is a heavy legacy to leave behind.

It is easier to apologize than to undo. Easier to say “I didn’t mean it” than to accept that intention does not erase impact. Because even if you didn’t mean to hurt them, you did. Even if you were hurting too, it doesn’t absolve you. Pain does not grant permission to inflict pain.

There are words we say because we want to win. Words we say because we want the other person to feel small, to retreat, and submit. Words weaponized not for truth, but for control. When the adrenaline fades, we are left staring at the wreckage, HONESTLY surprised by how effective we were at destruction.

The shame follows. The quiet self-loathing. The way you avoid certain memories because they remind you of the version of yourself you don’t want to acknowledge. The way you wish you could go back and choose differently because of the consequences, and who you became in that moment.

There is a grief that comes with realizing you were capable of such cruelty.

And there is another grief layered beneath it: the understanding that the relationship you shattered will never return to what it was. Even if they forgive you. Even if you reconcile. Something shifted irreversibly. Trust cracked. Safety compromised. Innocence lost. You cannot unring a bell, and you cannot make someone forget the sound of it.

The end is rarely immediate. Sometimes it is slow. A quiet distancing. Fewer conversations. Less laughter. A gradual erosion that you don’t notice until one day you realize you are strangers standing on opposite sides of a memory you both mourn differently. And deep down you know that it began with words you should have swallowed.

We romanticize honesty, as if brutality is its highest form. As if being “real” requires being ruthless. But there is a difference between truth and cruelty. Truth can be gentle. Truth can be thoughtful. Truth does not need to humiliate to be valid. What we often call honesty is simply unfiltered emotion, and words carelessly delivered.

There is power in restraint. In choosing silence over spectacle. In choosing compassion even when anger feels justified. It is not weakness to pause. It is wisdom.

Because words are not fleeting. They are seeds. And once planted, they grow into resentment, insecurity, distance, and endings we later pretend were inevitable. But many endings are not fate. They are consequences.

And yet, we are human. We falter. We fail. We speak when we should listen. We lash out when we should lean in. This is not a condemnation without mercy. It is a confession. A collective one.

We all have sentences we wish we could retrieve. Moments we wish we could rewrite. Conversations that haunt us because they revealed the worst parts of us at the worst possible time. And perhaps the point is not to be perfect, but to be accountable. To learn. To carry the weight of our words so we wield them more carefully next time.

Maybe this is a dedication not just to the words we regret, but to the people who survived them. To those who carried on despite being reduced to tears by someone they loved. To those who learned to guard their hearts more closely because of a sentence spoken without thought.

And maybe it is also a promise, to ourselves, and to others, that we will try harder. That we will pause. That we will choose silence when speech would only wound. That we will remember words are not harmless, and neither are we.

Because sometimes love is not proven by what we say, but by what we choose not to.

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