a warehouse where all the things I never said are kept

I'm standing in a warehouse lit like a supermarket, and every shelf holds a small glass jar with a word inside — every sentence I almost said but swallowed. The jars are warm, like they've been holding breath. A man in a grey coat is labelling them, not reading them, just filing. I want to smash one to see what it sounds like out loud, but I'm afraid it'll be the exact thing I've been trying not to admit I think.