There's so much I wanna say to you, so many words that need to be spoken, but my mouth just can't produce those words. Whenever I try to talk to you, I become this newborn child that hasn't learnt how to speak yet. It's like fear is holding my mouth shut.
There's so much that has to be said, so I'm letting my pencil do the talking. My pencil isn't afraid to say the words. Its lips aren't held together by fear.
There's so many words that need to be spoken. If not by mouth, then by pencil.

It's peanut butter crackers
and diet coke.
A time to reflect on choices,
life, failures, economic goals.
In the background,
without sound
there's a shadow,
never stitched
nor set by adhesive.
It's simply there
like I am
on this carpet,
Indian style
wondering if
someone can see this.
This body,
this soul,
this crippling person
who flicks bits of toasted crumbs
from her lap.
Staring into an enormous oblivion
wishing to swallow her whole
until nothing remains
but the shadow.
This is depression
at it's finest.