tigersaint

the thirty-seventh night:

i am ashamed of how soft i am on the inside.

i read this recently and i wrote it on the inside of my arm, to remind myself; i sat down in the stacks at the library and pulled my shirt off of my arm so that i could write it from the inside of my bicep down to my wrist:

"You believe, as we all do, that the secrets parts of us make us up. Once it becomes exposed, the wind may carry it away from you. But it is more dangerous for you, because you know this wind will be right there once you show yourself as it comes straight from your own mouth."

i think this is why i am so quiet most of the time--if you listen closely, just the sound of my voice will give all my secrets away.