Talk- Namira

Being known for being a talker isn't a good thing. All I do is talk, I’m vulnerable, exposed, naked for the world to see. I have nothing left of me. Experiences only teach you things when you lock them away somewhere no one would care to see, the place in my gruesome, itchy mind that's spotless and bare. A place kept for learning. Oh, there’s things there too- only they’re invisible, so pushed to the back, I can’t feel it. My experiences are written on my face, in every tear I shed and every crease between my brows, wincing pains me, an endless cycle.

Talk, talk, talk, let it all out. Where people can’t afford food, I pray my parents take me to therapy. What would I do there? Talk some more? The very thing that shuts my mouth up for myself? Oh, I can talk with my mouth shut, I let out, I let out, I let out. I’m only a pile of bones and tears. If I took off all my clothes, there’d be nothing appealing to see. My clothes are in tatters, they were all I had. I’m unveiled, little left to see. I’m nothing. If I were loved, people would stare. But am I incapable of getting love?

I drown myself in endless self-pity, being self centered right now is the only way to save myself. Let them watch me rise with tar clinging onto every bit of me, doing the job for my torn clothes. What do I hide? 

Talk.

Talk.

Talk.

No one wants to keep my tar, pass it on for someone else to pass it on. 

(p.s. im okay btw)