talking is hard

talking is hard.

but metaphors are easy to share, 

because no one can be sure of who or what you are talking about.

so let me speak in riddles, the words i wish i could at least whisper aloud;

your eyes are more dangerous than a tsunami tide and i'm a little fearful of drowning.

but can you blame me? 

drowning would mean losing everything. 

i don't know if i'm ready. 

can anyone ever be ready?

my thoughts got lost in the ice and lava of your waters, so here is the treasure chest of

symbols and riddles and metaphors i've been meaning to give you

you stole my heart's map, i have yet to find my way back.

i wish i could dig up every root
of every wild rose of words planted in the garden of my chest
and hand every bloom, thorns and all, over to you,
but my tongue keeps setting the lock back on the gate.

i didn't mean for this garden to be a secret

where did these walls come from?

i wish i could take up a hammer in my hand
and swing with the power of every ounce of blood that has coursed through my veins
to break down every brick wall i've ever raised high in front of my mouth.

i wish i could gather up every "i love you" and "i miss you" and "i'm sorry" i've ever thought but never spoke out loud
into a giant bouquet of baby's breath and tie them up with a ribbon made of my heart stretched thin and hand them over to every person i was too afraid to show love to, because they deserve the world and so much more,
so here is my world - made up of all of the honest words i'm too fragile to share.
or maybe i'm just too immature and naive to share them.
or maybe i'm a little too cautious.
or maybe i'm a little too scared of the unknown.
or maybe
or maybe
or maybe

okay, i have lots of maybes. lots of dirt under my fingernails. lots of fears. lots of insecurities. lots of what ifs. lots of tangled up thoughts in a messy messy messy mind. lots of lost maps. lots of lost worlds. lots of lost words. lots of i'm not sures. and they seem to get in between my heart and other people. i didn't wish them here. i never invited them into my house of broken bones and twisted tendons. i think they decided to gradually build up over the course of my existence and now my hands are tied behind my back and, you see, they covered my face with a mask i did not choose to wear, and i don't know what to do.

i'm sorry if this is too much for you.

or not enough.

talking is hard.

but metaphors are easy to type up in black on white pages.

maybe these words aren't as clear-cut and colorful as language spoken face-to-face,

but at least it they aren't silent.