My insides are tired,
And I'm sad.
I'm doubtful of your love
Because all I want to be is a closed book,
And I wonder how you ever understood me.
My fingers are twisted and wrung,
There are nail marks on my hands,
And I'm less and less able to keep the emotions wanting to erupt,
In.
I don't like talking and the sound of my voice
Is sometimes foreign to me;
I like singing, they are other people's words;
And so the thoughts swirl and swirl in my head,
Cranking a voice box that just won't work.
Sometimes I just want to be alone.
The corner. The cocoon. The nook between pillows.
They are all enticing. Self-powered warmth. Silence. Stillness.
