Secrets are best kept by dead men.
I find myself shackled to the bad habits I try to avoid.
Chomping down on my bottom lip trying to contain my smile.
Forcing myself to feel pain in order to restrain a blush.
If you know, the silence is comforting, makes me feel as though I’m not a fool.
It’s as bad as changing a blind man’s furniture around without telling him.
Like liquorish, bitter, different, strange.
But I guess some people like it, swinging it around like whips and plucking off pieces to chew.
Why beat at locked doors with no one behind them?
Like last time, I know what is wrong and this falls into the same category.
I’m trying to become an adult but the butterflies tell me different, making me feel childish and giddy.
Sadly, I defend myself by saying I like the liquorish because it’s bitter.
Why? It’s like fire to me.
So different, like sweet and sour candies. Me being the sour of course because I work at it.
Obsession is at the tip of my tongue; thoughts constantly crashing against me.
Curiosity of the differences keeps me up and makes me feel similar to a child molester.
I can’t sleep because I fear that it’ll haunt my dreams and everything will spiral jaggedly.
And it’ll be like this until our flame is devoured under the wax.
Or until my lip is completely consumed and I walk around with a bloody smile and rosy cheeks.
