It's safer if I don't share,
don't open a coffin
that houses nothing
but moths and gasoline.
I can't share my joy
with you, you never want to
embrace it. I can't trust you
to hold my sorrow either,
without you implicating it.
Eventually, I will combust,
yet I won't make a sound.
The symphonies of silence
will lay me down, and you
won't notice I'm gone
until it's written in blood
