If there is anything I cannot abandon in me, it’s being honest. It’s both a blessing and a curse. There are things I shouldn’t be saying yet or not be saying at all but end up blurting if my conscience is not at peace with shutting up or pretending or holding back. I sometimes think words just expunge themselves out of me, uncontrollably. And recently I did it again, went ahead of my self due to over-thinking and just spilled stuff that I could have just allowed time to reveal someday. But heck no, my feelings just took off and went crazy. It must have been the need to preserve myself, to prevent hurt, or to get the results I want. I killed something that may have been something good. Now I just feel bad, for always rushing and never allowing things to just unfold before me. I wish to blame the pains of the past for making me this way—unbelieving, scared, fragmented and hard—but ultimately, I can only blame me for building fences around my heart and for erecting walls that have to be destroyed before anyone gets closer. I’m culpable for not being loved for I know not how to. I refuse to even allow it to start, to begin somehow. Just one of them nights when pillows get drenched in the sadness of some fool’s tears.