I
izzy7970
Guest
“You talk too much” he says, “always yammering. You never shut up, you never know when to stop.”
He expresses himself with skin, and it yells louder than I’ve ever heard him speak.
He screams with every gesture, and what can he be hiding, that he needs to say so loud?
“You speak in riddles, you know? I never know what you’re saying.”
He adds new voices to the cacophony; layer upon layer, not an inch of him can be quiet.
He never talks about it, but he never, ever stops drawing on the stories.
“You only shut up when I’m over-whelming you. I feel like I have to possess you to make you silent. I hate that, you know. Sometimes I hate you, you’re so loud.”
He flinches when you trace your finger over the lines, like they’re private images, displayed by necessity, or bruises that will never heal, making patterns on his flesh.
“It’s good when it can just be calm. I can’t hear myself think, with all your banter. You even talk in your sleep. I don’t know where you find time to breathe, sometimes.”
It’s shrill and brazen, confusing your senses, because it’s heard so much clearer than it’s seen. It was done with intention, each pattern well thought out, to state what he could never say.
“I can love you when you’re still, but you’re almost never still. I don’t care about gossip, or what happened when you were a kid. Why can’t you just hush, and let me love you?”
These things cannot be silenced, only cloaked and choked off, and once you’ve seen it, you already know. Something happened and you have to hear about with every exposition.
“Why can’t you ever say anything important? I wish I could love you, it would be easier that way.”
It’s blinding and deafening, and it can make you sick if you stare too long. It’s like a train wreck on his body, but you cannot look away. There’s only love in the night, here.
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I'm just looking for honest opinions. Thanks much!
He expresses himself with skin, and it yells louder than I’ve ever heard him speak.
He screams with every gesture, and what can he be hiding, that he needs to say so loud?
“You speak in riddles, you know? I never know what you’re saying.”
He adds new voices to the cacophony; layer upon layer, not an inch of him can be quiet.
He never talks about it, but he never, ever stops drawing on the stories.
“You only shut up when I’m over-whelming you. I feel like I have to possess you to make you silent. I hate that, you know. Sometimes I hate you, you’re so loud.”
He flinches when you trace your finger over the lines, like they’re private images, displayed by necessity, or bruises that will never heal, making patterns on his flesh.
“It’s good when it can just be calm. I can’t hear myself think, with all your banter. You even talk in your sleep. I don’t know where you find time to breathe, sometimes.”
It’s shrill and brazen, confusing your senses, because it’s heard so much clearer than it’s seen. It was done with intention, each pattern well thought out, to state what he could never say.
“I can love you when you’re still, but you’re almost never still. I don’t care about gossip, or what happened when you were a kid. Why can’t you just hush, and let me love you?”
These things cannot be silenced, only cloaked and choked off, and once you’ve seen it, you already know. Something happened and you have to hear about with every exposition.
“Why can’t you ever say anything important? I wish I could love you, it would be easier that way.”
It’s blinding and deafening, and it can make you sick if you stare too long. It’s like a train wreck on his body, but you cannot look away. There’s only love in the night, here.
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I'm just looking for honest opinions. Thanks much!