If I could count the times I held it all in, the fingers on my hands are not enough. There were so many times where I should have said this instead of that, where I should have put a hand on your arm instead of crossing my arms on my chest, in an attempt to try not to care about anything you said. But that’s not me at all. I care too much, I falter easily–meeting your tired eyes and giving you nothing instead. Unbelievably so, I draw a blank on the reasons why I stay.
At times I do find myself at a loss for words, and my lips instead move to the rhythm of the secret, but I am so used to regret– the strength from where I draw my tolerance, my capacity to control my own self, to keep me from more of the me I want to show you.
How can I keep myself from holding it in all the more when you are the greatest secret never told?