→ 1274.

I hate talking.
I never think when I speak. Not even once. My mind turns into a corn crop during the dustbowl and it’s blank.
I just hate the way my voice sounds.
But I talk and I talk and I talk and I talk and I talk.
Because silence is too much. I can’t stand it and it tells all my secrets when it’s around.

You like talking.
You always seem so put together when you speak and you never have to backtrack very far if you do mess up a point. Your mind is a garden and I dwell there.
I just love the way your voice sounds.
When I talk with you, I don’t have to speak. I can nod or just make agreeing noises in my throat.
I like that so much more than my talking constantly about shit that has not, and will not ever matter.
I run my mouth too much because I’m afraid of what I’ll think in public if I don’t.
I wish I wasn’t known as a talker, because I barely want to speak and yet I feel like I’m obligated to always be making noise because that’s “who I am” and so I must carry on.

I just want my lips sewn shut.

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