Heaven knows my secrets.
I hope the angels help me keep em.
Because this pen is steady bleeding,
The words I wish to keep in.
Theres no more room for vocalizing the thing’s I’m carrying.
It’s just me and the journal for my feeling’s burial.

Silence fits me best.
Any time I speak up it feels like I’m stepping in a trap.
Face down, I couldn’t trust in what’s coming next. 
This comes from my heaviest of chests. 

There’s no lock-pick for my heart’s hidden chambers.
All my damages go unclaimed. 
Loving me has way too many dangers.
My patterns go unchanged. 
My tongue cuts like a razor.
Self Love is a losing game. 

I’m a stain. 
I just wish my message could be reframed.