Maybe the silence isn’t written about because those are the things we hide in our closet.They are the things that puncture already open wounds, it starts at the surface and down to the bruise. We silence the kids saying they would rather kill themselves then enter another day at school with the same diplomatic bullshit. Our lungs are heavy with the smoke we inhale from the second hand smoke of the kids just asking for a little bit of attention. Or what about the kids who write in the bathroom stalls shattering their lovers names. Isn’t this fun, opening a silence that we have locked up for so long. My emotions are like weights around my ankles pulling me down further than the load on my shoulders. I’m tired of the miscellaneous sadness I have kept for so long. Maybe it is from all the skeletons we hide, like they have open up and spilled their thoughts to break the silence of our already broken hearts















