Words don't come from your head. They're from the gut.
Take the ancient samurai, for example. When they're facing so much shame they can't express it in words, they just take a sword and rip their guts out for everyone to admire. There was even someone who held the bowl that caught the guts.
She has a pocket of stardust that she keeps slung across her shoulder, the mouth face down and opened a millimeter wide, so that whenever she takes a step fine glittery grains tumble out and draw a thin trail behind her. I can always tell that she's in town after seeing silver dust against the blacktop. If I see it when I'm doing my rounds and there's a bit of time left to spare, I like to follow it, just to know where she's been or where she's going; sometimes I even manage to catch up.
It was Saturday morning and the town was still drowsy, the sun's foreshadowing rays already baking the air. I'd found the trail again, careful not to mess it up with my tire tracks. It wasn't long before I found her, reclining under the easy shade of an oak on some poor unfortunate's front lawn.
"You aren't walking," I said, too surprised to be polite.
"Oh. It's you," she said. She reflected for a moment before saying with decision, "Go away."
"Nice to see you too."
baking the surface of the road until it wriggled like a worm under my bike