The last strand of the nylon cord.
The breaking point closest to my grip,
Where my palms burn to hold on.
If I pull any tighter,
My words are no longer the voices I scream inside my head to you
They would become hurtful, though impulsive.
I want them to hurt you. These voices.
My alter ego, please loosen your grip.
Not secretive, expressive. Not loud, I usually am quiet. I tend to depend on my enthusiasm in whatever situation (childish I know, but that's me)
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