I want to write in hyroglrifics to conceal my words from myself, cryptic messages not i, not no one, can unravel.
Instead thoughts lay beside my heart on my sleeve
This same sleeve that got ripped open a long time ago, and ever since i have become an involuntary show and tell
Yes I've tried fixing it but the staples, awkward and painful, hold place until next time
There is always a next time
I took the shirt to the physician and she told me it was broken beyond repair
And the best that I could hope for is these makeshift staples, strewn along where the label used to reside inside the cuff. It used keep my secrets in. And not let anything out.
See, then I had the choice. I could unbutton the cuff and occasionally I would, but devoid of choice makes one warier than the average warrior.
Back when the shirt first ripped, in that crucial bit just tucked away under the cuff, I used to pester the doc about the possibility of a transfer. She fed me all the words that I longed to hear, but now I realise she had the choice. Her words were nothing more than a bandage laden with cotton wool. Just temporary. But they cushioned me at the time.
Hey, at least she gives me staples on prescription.