The sign of a heart two sizes too small.

The more I explore the concept of who I am the more I realize how deeply entrenched the lies I tell myself run. Who am I? Oddly enough I am an emotional broken man. But you could never tell by looking at me. How do I expect others to see thru to me and then on thru me, to what I can no longer find. I physically injure myself and I bite my tongue, someone offends me greatly and I bite my tongue, someone pleases me and does something completely amazing and I smirk. Is this who I am. I am not proud of this. This is who I am.

I am not Proud.

Hold on, while I go outside and scream.

No, no I did no such thing. Here I sat staring at my reflection in a monitor gone black. Strangely fitting, me alone surrounded by black, lost in a sea of calm and yet there just below the surface, almost visible, lies life. So this is how you see me, just a moment ago as rage flowed thru me, where was its mark? Can we spot the signs of its passage? There. A slightly furrowed brow, a small compression of the lips. The look when you don’t recall where you left your phone. Yet somehow here I sit, the way I am is the way I should be. Or at least this is what I tell myself so that I never come to the realization of how wrong I am.

My mind spews vitriol and my face lies. Where does all this emotion go? So much of it, unspoken, unvoiced, unacted, unexpressed. We who bottle it all up don’t explode in bouts of emotion, no. No. We slowly and surely implode, sucking it all into ourselves, hating every muted emotion. And the face breaks into a half formed sneer.