Comfort clothing...

 

My writing utensils give me away,
tattling on me
like the immature child
…I am…

[i’m currently trying to hide from what this taunting apparatus might have to say this time, 
but my downy green hooded sweatshirt offers little solace, 
and does nothing to bury my thoughts from my pen]

[i wish i could hide, or remember how to censor, 
but all that comes through is perfectly discomforting honesty, 
and suddenly, I am left with no choice but to review and divulge]

…and somehow my headphones forget…

…to remind me that everything will be o.k.       
    this time around...

    because maybe it won’t be

…and perhaps I’m fine with that…