i want to go through and clean things up
scrub the blood off the walls
clear the smell of rust and loneliness from the air
i am not the intelligent author of prose, no,
but the emotional rambler with a vocabulary made up of
screams and metaphors
i want to bare my soul
to you, who may actually understand what it means to be bare
but i fear we don't speak the same language
every word i write
every entry laced with desperation
and yours, introspection
i am too self-critical to be self-aware
but tell me
if i write with the tantrum honesty of a child
will you understand?