So they say I’m a quiet one.
[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]
It’s true.
This little mouth does not say much.
I chew on my opinions until they've lost their flavor.
I only own up to feelings if I get them down on paper.
What goes in, you see,
doesn't always need to come out.
But just because my lips aren't constantly quivering with
quips and quotes
and qualms
and questions
about this world and everything in it,
doesn't mean
that these lips
can’t.
See, my psyche, she’s like an organic centrifuge—
Spinning so fast—she only appears to be standing still.
Spinning so fast—she doesn't have time
to make the connection from mind to mouth.
Spinning so fast—she’s silently grateful
that those hovering thought bubbles
can’t exist in reality.
Honestly, if they could,
she’d be royally ******.
I’d love to slow her down.
I’d love to turn her off.
But the power switch has been broken since 1988,
when all of the muddled beauty in this world
came barreling toward her all at once,
and the switch snapped.
She’s been turned on ever since.
[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]
There’s just not enough time
for me to flesh out everything on my mind.
Oxygen is precious,
and they keep cutting down trees.
I won’t waste my breath—
I’m okay with keeping quiet.
I've found that
just because they can hear you
*doesn't mean they’re listening.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2014