Grandmother Robin

When I am unsure whether or not to speak, I usually end up not speaking. I cannot say that this has been an awful decision, all things considered. When I feel something (let's call it "anger") and think about speaking, I am usually pretty able to quell that without much to-do. Later, when I'm able to go over things I might have said, things I had really considered saying, I am usually grateful for not having said it, grateful that I had held my tongue. Vulgarity, rashness, blame.

Then there are the other times when I am unable to justify my inability to speak. My cheeks flare up angrily, a sign to me that I'm being cowardly, a sign to others that I'm a quiet, introverted, borderline asocial. I get disgusted with myself during those times. I want to leave. I think about the sea and how huge it is. I think about scrubbing my skin with steel wool (not really, but that image has been 0n my mind for a couple of minutes now).

I do not like having regrets, and I do not profess to having many. However, I wonder sometimes whether or not I have simply buried my regrets under words, renamings, warping them into something they are obviously not but could be (and can) in my head. Do I have regrets? Some, not many. Do I have other things which could also be called by the same name - I am a confusing person. To myself especially.