The Thing Is

I want to tell you all my secrets without the blood rushing to my face,

Without lockjaw wiring my words shut.

I want to be brazen about my truths,

no more hangovers from wreck less vulnerable nights before.

My revelations are children petrified of the high drive–

An entanglement of terrified tightrope walkers along my taste buds,

Cliffhanging confessions begging to let go.

But here I am,

beet-faced and

begging the Gods that you’ll open up first,

Be a little braver than me.

The thing is,


love isn’t a staring contest.

The only thing stone faced and unflinching gives you is regrets.


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