What if I question myself?

What if who I thought I was. . .

Isn’t true anymore?
I don’t know If I can bear
The knowledge that I am,
And always have been,
A slick-tongued chatterbox.
Are my words only half-formed,
Unsure of themselves,
Even as they go into the world
As daggers, myself unaware
Of all the harm I’ve caused others?
My words have always been few. . .
I never meant to. . .
It seems my values have become
Optional—I cast a blind eye
To all the things that I do,

And disapprove of—
I wish I could be intentional
Instead of flustered and
Nonsensical when asked
Simple questions—
Is this why I am bad at chess?
I cannot see ahead,
I try to play smart and only
End up in a castled prison--
I am checkmated by my own
wide-eyed carelessness.