bruises on my wrists.

Dear you,

I should never open my mouth again.

That's what I've been taught since my infancy. That I should learn to keep my mouth shut, that I shouldn't speak, that it's better to be silent.

That I should let my eyes speak for me.

But my eyes are almost as silent as my bones and my bones only ever talk to my heart and my heart needs to speak up more than my brain but my brain can't stop running off to my lips and my lips should quit gossiping to my tongue and my tongue really just needs to shut the fuck up before it goes and slits someone's throat again.

Because my lips aren't murderers, but they're probably solid motivators for the way my tongue acts. Sometimes I think I can't help it, that being bitchy just comes naturally. Speaking the truth isn't beautiful and I'm afraid I never was one to be called gorgeous.

My words aren't eloquent or precious, they are rough and tattered and they keep on slicing people's feelings to bits like it's some kind of sick game.

Maybe it's not that my eyes are silent, it's just that my words are speaking louder than any of my actions ever did because everyone seems to be going blind thanks to all of the smoke coming off of my tongue.

I always thought smoke would be beautiful but I guess I'm the only one who's addicted to the taste.

I'm just sorry that my lips and tongue won't be silent enough for you to understand what my eyes are trying to say because my bones can't speak for themselves.

Sincerely,
xx
Blue