I bite back the words I truly want to say. Chew them down, swallow them, like bittersweet medicines. Bury them under layers and layers of doubts, fears, insecurities, lies; six feet under, hoping they'll die buried alive. But they return, every night, when the sun sets and the stars come out. The moon summons them and they rise, looking for release.
Because I'm waiting for the perfect time? Or the right setting? Or maybe it's too early? I haven't analysed the lines enough, maybe. Or haven't put the feelings behind the words through the rough choppy waters of the logical thought process. Haven't philosophised or complicated or dramatised or rationalised them enough.
Or maybe smart and logical as I think I am, maybe all I truly am is insecure and afraid. Irrational and foolish. Too careful? Too careless? Confused. And stupid.