Runnaway Mouth

Sometimes,
I hate me.

Actually, not sometimes, most of the time.

Falling,
          down
                   down
                            down
a dark hole

filled with Christmas tree decorations,
                                                           busted pens
                                                                               and half a banana choc-chip muffin.

I just can't help it.

Whenever I talk, I talk loud, fast, and about everything,
                                                                                     and nothing,
all at once.

I believe,

that it makes me seem strange and scary,

like I'm spewing out my words,
                     like they are toxic,
          and if they touch you,

if they touch you,

you'll become an empty, burbling zombie,
just like me.

I have considered many times,
jumping from the school roof,
just so I can escape
the cold, staring faces,

of those around me,

escape my kaleidoscope world of blues,
                                                             purples,
                                                                           and greens.

But I don't.

After all, it would be terribly messy.