I have never been good at talking.
I spend my words frugally,
As if they are limited—
As if they conform to some currency—
To hide behind the dam that holds back
The river waiting to burst through my mind
Out into my eyes.
But I hold back.
It seems that no matter where I hide my heart
Someone ends up finding it—
Pointing a finger
To assign guilt,
And don't get me wrong,
For, I am guilty.
But I hold back.
Waiting—
Waiting for my time alone
To let my dam unfold,
To let the scars free
From my soul.
Not many understand
What it feels to genuinely hate
Your own being
In the essence of your stone cold
Broken heart—
But even still, I bottle up,
And hold back
Wishing away the hope of another “fresh start.”
Even as still,
However, as I sit waiting—
The dam doesn't break apart;
It just sits and waits—
Waits to hit me hardest
When I can't take the punches,
When I lose my balance,
When there is none other than one escape—
If you could even call death an escape.