Shake.

I can feel it in my throat. The feeling of being alone has washed me on the metaphorical shore. And I have to face it all. Secrets and regrets. Everything. I have to face everything but show nothing. Fight off my demons and help you fight off yours, too. I have to put everyone first. I keep my words to myself and this paper the best I can. The gun is the pen, the bullets are the words, you’re the target. Every letter I draw and every note I write to myself is inspired by one of you. The happy you. The angry you. The straight up nasty you. Every word I inscribe on this paper, it makes me violent. It makes me angry. It makes me proud. And it makes me shake. Verbal vomit in my throat, coming out only through the words on paper. I’ll let you know when I come back to earth, because right now, I don’t even want to be in the same solar system as you are. You make me ill in the mental sense, you make me shake in the physical. Shaking like a cold, wet, stray dog. Alone in the same sense. And I can never make you happy, your words are nothing until actions can back them up. I can never make you permanently happy. Everything is so temporary. And you only care when you feel like you did something wrong. You don’t want to be cast aside, because you know how fast I drop things. You know how vicious I get, but I’ll let you in on a secret. Anger masks every feeling of sadness, being hurt, or depression I feel. So I cover it up. And I get angry and scream. But actually, in my mind, it’s the equivalent to crying in that very moment. I’m never mellow. I’m always on edge. Wanna know why? It’s because I’m always sad. Always scared. But vulnerability isn’t for me. So I cover it up. And I keep my mouth shut. I’m not meant to speak what’s on my mind, because that would mean I’d get more negatively perceived amongst everyone around me, more so than I already am. So I bottle it all up until the pen hits paper, and that’s when I shake and cry. When I shake, it’s the only time I truly feel human; the only time I truly feel alive.