Some nights, I want to be more honest. I want to open my veins and let the words form organically, to fill the page and free my thoughts from the binds of an internal diatribe. Too many words scatter in my head like tumbleweeds taken by a strong wind - vanishing from the plain of my awareness with only the lingering howl of a storm to remind me they existed at all. But I am stilted and uncomfortable, and the prospect of baring my bones to the world is frightening. I fear that you might address these messy bundles of sentences, that you might look into them to decipher their meaning, and I don't want you to discover that the choreography between words is as broken and irregular as I am; so instead, I will keep them and scribble them down until they're nothing but ink stains on napkins and long-forgotten documents, put them in my pockets, tuck them into the creases of my elbows and the hollows behind my ears, and make them stay quiet.