My killer remedy.

“Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets & takes its own punishment in silence.” 

— Dorothea Dix

Today shall be the day. 

I always thought that confessions or just being honest with my feelings to you or to anyone would be a sign that I'm sincere and honest. Apparently I was wrong. Now I see, everyone including you just seem to think of it as a mere sign of weakness. Being naive. Oh so innocent to be the best opportunity to play a fool off or just sheer being taken advantage off. Mysterious, I've been there and done that. Somehow back then, people want to see how much I have inside and would do just anything to know. Even to be my friend just to see the secrets within and then rip my heart out as a trophy for the world to see. I've tried to be more open and share more about my feelings. Now I see, that was the first ever mistake I've been doing and now it's too late. 

I always thought that a little disclosure at least to the one significant to you would be nice. To share your inner thoughts, or sometimes a piece of your mind. I wanted someone to share their thoughts with me. I guess I was not ready. I can't take those criticisms you had for me. Harsh as they were, I put up to them. Just secretly screaming on the inside. Maybe what Dorothea Dix said isn't exactly true. Who is to say that it is not though? Any takers to prove Dix wrong? Even you said it was a weakness. One which I had too much. 

I've been down that road and bottling up my insides wasn't exactly the vehicle of choice. It ended up in a series of manic episodes which somehow no one significant knows. I've told all those I deemed worthy to hear and know. I didn't want anyone to have anything against me. This wasn't a secret for you to use against me. So the whole world knows. Only those hearts are with their ears heard the cries of that broken story's soul. How many? I often wonder. I guess my right hand could tell you so.

 

Now I shall keep these lips sealed. So seal that not a secret, not a thought should you hear. My face has been so attached to this mask that it's unbearable ripping it out anymore. Perhaps I should just stick to it or layer it some more with another as the event deems suited. Mark my words. Only maybe one day, or someday. On the other verge of falling over the edge shall they be told. Once again, here's my heart singing it's mirrorlodic song, reciting it's own sick rhymes in the dark, upon the edge of that black window silk for all the night creatures to sing along to it. This is my remedy. Wish hard for my heart will let the cat out of the bag, for he is the one that betrays this mind. Murder should be attempt.