Engraved Bones

In a much more simple way, you said the ink that's spilled from my pen speaks flamboyance and eccentricity. Is it wrong to hate you for those seconds of misunderstanding until a realization that your hurt and suppression disallows you to express. Your emotion, like a shaken carbonated liquid, as sensitive as the terrible twos. It explodes onto the surface before seeping within. I dig your soul out of your shell, struggling to embrace it and heal it's intangible wounds. Years of nurturing trail scattered behind me and I wonder what I have done wrong. But as I begin to engrave into my bones, the truth of who I am, all this time, have I been spoon feeding a soul that can only fully nourish itself?