I Explain Nothing In So Many Words

I can explain the astrological signs.
How you’re ruled by more than just your sun sign on your birth chart,
Or why you lose your temper so often or not often enough.

I can debate the issues of society and our government.
Go back and forth about misogyny or equality,
Even toss out my ideas about how America has a need for war.

I can express my thoughts over the ignorance of religion.
Tell you in many ways that there’s absolutely no need for gods,
Eventually explain why humans chase religions on blind faith.

I can elaborate on psychological habits or addictions.
Teach you more about depression, anxiety, or self-injury,
or describe how your past affects the things that you currently do.

I can speak to you about my own past experiences.
Blatantly detail the life that I’ve gone through,
failing to show any signs of bias or even personal mental effects.

Regardless, I always choke on myself.

I can’t iterate on why I have a need for control
because I had once allowed someone to take it from me in every single way.

I can’t explain why I’m unable to let people see my need for pain
so I can momentarily interrupt the deepest and darkest parts of myself.

I can’t begin to detail my reasons for constantly asking for your affection and your attention
only to turn around and shy from your touch and your praise.

I can’t elaborate on my inability to rely on others for anything,
because regardless of your efforts, I will always expect you to stab me.

I can’t tell you that I’m insecure and that I will always require your compliments,
since I’m unable to gratify my own personal worth.

I can’t express my emotions out-loud,
because there was a time when I was forced to listen while someone I loved,
laughed at them for being so fucking stupid.

I can’t share my deepest thoughts,
because I will never expect them to finally be of enough importance to anyone
that they’ll actually attempt to understand.

I can’t talk about myself, because...
I don’t know how to allow anyone to get close enough to hurt me anymore.
Sometimes I want someone to be willing to trace all of the hints that I drop.
I am terrified of letting someone in, only for them to see everything that I already know.
I’m afraid of my weaknesses.
I am my own weakness.
I loved who I was before I became who I wasn’t.
I no longer know myself.
I can’t bear to have you look at me with my own eyes.
I live in fear of my own emotions.
I don’t ever know what I find myself thinking.
I am NOT important enough to talk about.

I can’t share myself,
because I think that nothing is something, of higher worth, than any trivial aspect of myself.