I'm terrible at keeping my own secrets. They well up in my chest and slosh around, crashing into glass walls that threaten to break. I can feel it cracking, and a slow leak is forming a puddle on the floor. I just want to spill. I want to burst in a tsunami of truth. So I write it. I write it and write and write, but it's just not the same. I won't feel the catharsis until someone else knows. And I have no one to tell. Well... That's not entirely true. I do have a handful of people who would be willing to listen. I'm embarrassed. I'm worried about the consequences. And still, a part of me enjoys having this dangerous, verge of explosion feeling. It's like at any moment it could all come tumbling out of my mouth.

So I'll keep it, and I'll save it up. I'll savor this sick excitable feeling until I blow up in a mushroom cloud of glitter and confectioners sugar. Or I'll let it bake away until it burns and adheres to its pan in a black brick layer. And I shall remember it by the sooty taste it leaves in my mouth.