There is so much I wish I could tell you all that I can’t tell anyone. No, not even you, or you, or you. No one. And for that, I am sorry

I once wrote how a secret is like eating something. I used to occasionally take oxycodone for fun, and to escape the mediocrity which generally defines my life. The pills were encapsulated powder, and when I was in too big of a hurry to get water to wash them down with, I would swallow them dry- and the glutenous, dry capsules would stick to my moist esophagus. they would create a painful lump in my throat. it reminded me of times when I would swallow tears when I was being yelled at, or when I swallowed spit in my mouth that accumulated because I was distracted, doing things I would never confess to anyone that I've actually done. Swallowing generally reminds me of secrets. How?

A secret that is truly your own- something no one knows- is the worst thing to ingest. Why?

Because of how sometimes it can get caught in your throat. It makes you choke, you want to spit it up, sometimes you wish it would just go down and not make your eyes water as it slices your esophagus as you swallow.

Then, there are other secrets- secrets people have told you out of fear or loneliness or desperation.They’re honestly not much better, and can have the same uncomfortable effect. Sometimes it can be heavy in your stomach and sometimes it can leave you feeling a tad ill. At the same time, they're also volatile- sometimes it turns out its just little pieces of their life they’ll spurt out to anyone that they happen to be too close to when theyre upset. It's like eating food quickly, and feeling it burn in your stomach, instead of your mouth.

I have those, you have those, it’s ok.

But the secrets you hear that you know you are the sole bearer of the existence of- those are the harder ones. It’s like a piece of meatloaf that sits in your stomach for days that you can feel rotting, or that feeling you get after you gorge on cheap chinese food- bloated, morose.

Whereas your own little secrets you tell no one else (You are sexually attracted to kids? You want a penis? You have a crush on a childhood friend? You facebook old boyfriends late at night? You wish a family member would die?) are like pills swallowed dry or poorly chewed chips. They stick in your throat, they dig in, they bother you for hours at a time. Right now, theyre bothering me for hours at a time.

Once again, I wish I could sleep and will this all away.

For me, sharing most of the things I truly consider to be secrets is the hardest thing on earth. I said once when I was tripping, "I can't tell the truth. I literally can't. So much of what I present to the world is a lie, I am beginning to forget what the truth is." And I am. My life is delicately woven, too much handling of the origin will just cause it to shatter and the whole things to unravel. The fuck-me point of it all is I know the truth of the origin, and I live with the stabbing, all too real shards.

I wish I could share more with you. I want to. I feel like the pieces I have shared have just brought us closer and closer together. I wish I could share more, but....
I really am not a good person.