These Metaphors That Are My Thoughts

I spill my thoughts onto the marble table,
the plain white pages stained with black ink stand out against the swirls of gray, black, and white.
My illogical and outlandish thoughts are discovered, and in doing such,
they are also judged.
Tears well up in my eyes and I cry, and as the salty drops of water creep down my cheeks and fall onto the paper, the ink on the pages dissolve.
Leaving smudges of words left unsaid.
I strategically slice the pages into small bits with a razor.
Though, as I slice, it feels like the blade is cutting into my own skin.
Carving words into my flesh, leaving me raw and bloody.
Yet, this sensation is only my imagination of the pleasure of my own pain.
This is me imagining pain...
The pain of being judged and criticized.

I won't speak my own opinion ever again.