I am sorry that I am not better with words.

Thoughts reside on the tip of my tongue
Like the water droplet of a leaking faucet,
Never quite gaining enough momentum to fall.
There is so much that needs to be said
There is so much that I wish to confide,
But I am paralyzed by my own vacillations.
I want to recount the laughs and disclose the heartaches;
I want to reveal the euphemisms that have manifested in my mind,
I want to confess my buried desires.
I want to share it all, I truly do.
Yet, it is all of these exhausting collections that restrain me.
It is the lingering fear of these words spoken aloud,
The greater fear of these words being witnessed.
This parasite of trepidation reminds me of past naivety.
I was convinced that my spoken thoughts were safe,
That these same words could never be used to dismember me.
Now these same words suffocate me, begging to be unburdened,
Yet trapped by a throat swollen with apprehension.
Some days, I worry that I will never be able to speak again,
My own thoughts slipping back into the abyss of a fractured mind.
Now here you are, with promises of aberrant understanding,
An invitation to entrust my calloused vulnerability.

I am sorry that I am not better with words.

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