I didn't want you to know

As a child, I used to play
solitary, systematic games. I used to
sit on the floor in my room with the
radio on, tuned in to the music,
tuned out to the world.
I learned to
internalize my voice when playing
Barbies or ponies,
and though the games I devised required
much thought, I never spoke a word.
And now, it seems, why should I
have to? My words are
right where I need them, close at hand.
Why should I
let them go? Maybe I'll
write them down for you, because somehow
this seems safer.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword, so the superlative
must be the tongue, like acid melting away
my carefully constructed walls.
I am soft and warm -
but I didn't want you to know that.
I've spent so long trying to hide it that sometimes
I forget.
I like to think of it as
silent confidence, but
pretending never got me anywhere, except
my garage, sticking yellow 10cent stickers on those
Barbies and ponies.
Really it's silent fear, the fear of
being exposed, of
vulnerability, of saying the wrong thing,
of looking like I don't belong.
It's the fear
of feeling.