Silence is the remnant of my mothers voice.

Silence is the remnant of my fathers voice.

Silence is my punishment.

Right or wrong, I am a talker, an interrogator. I seem to be the suspect and the prosecuting attorney. This is my greatest strength in getting to know people quickly; I waste very little time trying to get to the point. Also, this is my greatest curse because more often than not I push the line way too far, all for what? An answer? Understanding? Clarity? Selfishness?


When it comes to these moments my filter flies straight into the toilet and I say things I shouldn’t say, I use tones that I shouldn’t use and I am very invasive, pushy even. Where does my need to know lead me? Into my own personal hell where I get nothing communicatively. I push to the point that the people whom I love dearly don’t want to talk to me for an amount of time that is often undisclosed.

The pain that I experience in the moments that I am forced to bask in my own depravity is equivalent to someone taking metal skewers and jabbing them through random parts of my body. There is no way to locate which wound hurts the most and often difficult to really identify all of the places that I’ve been stabbed. What makes this the most depressing is that I have stabbed each metal rod through my own skin.

As emotion outpours from my self inflicted wounds I can’t help but be increasingly more condemning of myself; I am a good communicator, I am compassionate, I am graceful and I am protecting of emotions when I speak… most of the time. And in those off moments I see that I am more far off than I could have ever imagined.

Oh silence, please leave me soon. I pray that grace would replace the cold wind from your lips with warmth and comfort.

Until next time…


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