Therapy.

You don’t do therapy. 

You don’t find it fulfilling or even a bit satisfying to tell another person your feelings. 

There are many things mama taught you not to speak on in public. You don’t talk about what’s going on in your head. 

You swallow down your fears, chase it with your goals, and never utter your mistakes.

 You regret a lot, except the bodies. It was never the bodies. It was always the people that came with them. 

Fire engulfs every loose secret of yours. So shut your mouth.

You open your mouth and somehow your insecurities become the bullet in a gun blazing with the jealous urge to end you. You open your mouth and those 3AM, bloodstained, vomit inducing secrets are plastered on billboards of conversation in the dining hall, in the library, on the way to  six PM Psychology 101 classes. You open your mouth and they hold conferences about your emotional process in dorm rooms full of people, who met you four years ago but speak as if they were present the day you were born. You open your mouth and the little piece of your soul you took seven years to muster up enough courage to say outloud comes alive, spilling out of everyone’s mouth easily. So easily, so unimportantly nonchalant you start thinking that maybe you are not as special as mama said you were. A piece of your soul is floating through the universe so commonly you could've sworn they were talking about the weather. It’s debilitating, it’s crippling, it’s the numbing feeling you get when you expected the sun but got rain instead. You want to scream, “ Can you please show my soul some respect?” “How did you learn to move without one?” But you can't. So you don’t open your mouth. At Least, not about your business.