I write and write and write,
And my wounds only bleed onto the pages laid out before me,
I pour my heart onto to these pages,
Ink filling the lines of my confessions,
But who’s left to read them?
For I refuse to let anyone bare witness to my soul,
Too vulnerable, to worried about the heartbreak that can unfold from seeing someone’s
worth broken down into words.
Because confessing all this to you would be…
So much, too much for me to handle,
Because I can’t let you see me that way,
Not when the vulnerable parts of me need work,
So, so much work,
So I hide behind these words and the power they sometimes hold over me,
I write and write and write, are you sure you want to read?