why I pen these words,
I mean .. they just flow.
It's like an abandoned bathtub, water continuously splashing hard.
It bubbles out of me, easy. Freeing. Nothing forced, not even asked for.
Just a cause and effect of the emotions I don't show. Or words I can't form without a pen.
I would love nothing more than to send you this link.
Let you carousel the pages I scribbled on.
Stained and abused paper.
Smudged ink I bled in.
Let you in, all while I'm letting it out.
Exhale these things I don't have the heart to tell you.
Yet shame and fear shield my hand from pressing send.
They whisper, "Are you crazy, remember what he said the last time?" So I listen to them.
For I would rather them be right than I be wrong. I can't bear that again.
Instead, I’ll share it with strangers. You see, that was my heart on a plate for you.
But instead of appreciating the gesture you stabbed that same beating heart with your steak knife.
So, no. I refuse to send you more of my organs I happen to need for myself.
I'll choose selfish at this point, and it pains me to do so.
But, I've learned now.....
I'm writing for myself and my sanity only.