I talk a lot.
I get nervous and uncomfortable and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I will tell a silly joke. A lame story. I'll talk about a TV show or a movie or a book. A song I happen to think about. I can't shut myself up.
I say stupid things because, for whatever reason, I need to keep talking. I need to fill the empty space.
There are those--some that matter, some that don't--that hate this quality. This quirk. This flaw. So often, I grimace at my own voice, willing it to quiet, rolling my eyes at this incessant need I seem to have for communication.
Maybe I'm trying to quiet the words I don't say.
I complain more lately. I don't like it. Negativity is so "not me." But I hate lying even more and I'm not good at it. The words, "I'm fine" aren't so believable when my blue eyes are filled with fresh tears and my fair skin betrays red, angry blotches.
I'm easy to read. I can't hide my feelings so I know the words I don't say are plainly evident, even as I try to drown them out.
But I still wish that I could say them.