Thin margins for the dying

We live internal lives which only tangentially coincide with the person you know
There are always pieces held back
Too scary
Too awkward
Too crazy
To be accepted
Exposure to disbelief or mockery
Hide truth like razorblades
Close to the skin and cutting
Scars dribble
Blood rivers too slight to kill
Trails through the snow
Hidden lives
We turn away
Looking for truth
handing out blood apples
To strangers
Hoping and fearing to be seen
Screaming too loud to not be silent
Still
Better silence than courted by correction
Forced back into standard
Broken
To fit in