Yes, I am expressive.

When I am angry or sad or happy or bad you will know and hear about it.

But you don't know the half of my feelings.

My expressivity extends beyond what you see as a person and turns into something toxic coursing through my veins,

hidden and yet expressive in its own twisted way.

It longs to **** me,

to wrap its black hands around my throat and squeeze

but I grab it with both bloodied hands and hold it away

for another day or so.

Yes, I am expressive.

I vocalize lots and secretize little

But more is secretized than you think.

My fury rushes through me in hot waves of cut hands and bruised legs

my sadness shifts restless through tears shed by myself as well as with you

my happiness shines fleetingly though my eyes and my fingers that hold the pen

but most important:

my contention with the world comes in brief flickers of silver and pink,

as small as single pieces of confetti

scattered on the forest floor

of my head

what a beautiful life.