There's all these words inside me. They're bouncing around the walls of my head and bruising the inside of my mouth. My lips are hot with words, they're humming with them. They seep through my skin and slide down my arms and drip from the tips of my fingers. They puddle at my feet. They moisten my pillow and my carpets and my bed.
I'm careful. I ask questions. I make jokes. I hint. I quote song lyrics and write poems. I take letters and phrases and I twist them and weaken them and spit them out. I wipe them from my word-wet skin.
I'm wordy. I bury meaning inside a mess of consonants and vowels. I awkwardly dance about with verbs and adjectives. I make masks of words inside words inside words. I'm hopeless with conciseness.All the things I want to say keep filling me up and they spill out in all the wrong order at all the wrong times and, in the end, I haven't really said much at all.
I'm sorry for being so sorry all the time.