Silence roars.
Your tongue races autobiographies in minutes.
Spitting syllables of stress until a downpour falls across the kitchen counter and streams to the floor.
I sit there.
Silent.

I find release in touch.
A squeeze of the hand.
Arms wrapped around a waist.
Yet this is not acceptable.

I cannot speak, but you urge me so.
Forced sentences mean nothing.
I don't want the world that accompanies us to know my secrets,
So you wonder why I'm so down.
As if gravity hasn't thrown me off a cliff promising to catch me from my death yet changed its mind at the last minute.
So you keep quiet.