_My fingers hovering over the keys._

_My eyes lingering on the send button._

_My ears ringing with my own silence._

I want to text someone.

Or talk to my mom.

Or…

Or something.

I want it out.

I want the anxious,

Restless creature is my chest _out_.

If I could cough it up,

I would.

If bleeding myself dry would get rid of it,

I would.

If hurting myself on the outside

Would heal me on the inside…

I would.

But it wouldn’t.

Sometimes I want to forget that,

Sometimes I want to tear my skin apart,

Just in case it really does help.

But it won’t.

I know that.

I also know that,

Supposedly,

Talking about it helps.

I want to.

I know who I’d go to.

I know exactly what I’d say,

What situation I’d say it in.

But I…

I can’t.

I’ve claimed it’s because I don’t want to worry her,

Claimed I’m being selfless.

But what’s the point in lying to myself?

The only reason I won’t open up

Is because I’m scared.

What if it isn’t all people say it is?

What if it _doesn’t_ make things better?

What if I’m just as broken as before?

I think that disappointment would break

My barely held together defenses.

If talking about it didn’t do anything,

It would destroy me.

So my silent suffering is worth it,

Right?

But in the end,

We only regret the chances we didn’t take.