Sometimes, I’m quiet around you.
Not because I’m sad,
No.
Because I’m afraid.
I’m afraid that if I start to talk, I won’t be able to stop.
I’m afraid that I’ll say all of the things I’m not supposed to say and reveal all of the things that I promised I wouldn’t.
Because I’m not supposed to feel this way, and you’re not supposed to know.
I sit in silence, giving you a closed-lip smile every so often to reassure you that I’m alright.
I know you worry.
I just can’t open my mouth, or I might tell you how your smile gives me the butterflies.
I just can’t open my mouth, or I might tell you that you invade my every thought throughout the day.
I just can’t open my mouth, or I might tell you that I love you, love you more than you think I do.
So I smile, mouth closed.
And I go home, and I sob into the sheets of paper, because you’re the subject of everything I write.
Despite how desperately I try to stop it... to stop all of this.
But your name floods my mind and flows out with the ink, and it becomes out of my control.
