When I Get Home.

I wish I could write something bold enough to deserve the title "When I Get Home, You're So Dead." But my story just won't end up with the audacity to be daring enough for a death threat. Always mild, always tempered; I never really allow myself to react, to really fully react. This has me wondering if and when I will finally just break, allow myself to be visibly weak to more than just three or four sets of all knowing eyes.

But instead I write my words and give them watered down titles, my "When I Get Home, You're So Forgiven" is inevitable it seems. When I get home, your face in front of mine. The eyes I've trained myself to reflect in, the ears I've decorated with gifts and idle words. Oh, my when I get home isn't bold. I'll be much to proud to let my raw emotions show, because my safe interior tells me that the moments won't be enough when the afterlife embarrassment hits.

We'll see what happens, if I will break my level-headed manner, or smile in its nature. Whichever is meant to be will prevail; whichever it takes to spill my heart to the effect I deserve. As of now, not even I know which is taking the lead.