All these people spilling,
letting themselves slosh over the sides,
tossing back courage,
tongues slipping secrets with a flourish,
nonchalant, letting things fly.

My lid, usually ******* on tight,
loosens slightly,
but not enough,
not like the rest.
I play things close to the chest.
Y'all don't need to know about me.
y'all don't need to hear my things.
I've got dead friends,
I've got self-inflicted scars,
I've got self-hatred, loathing, lies, wounds,
but I share them crucially.
Don't try and rouse it from me,
if I share,
I care,
otherwise,
beware.