Analysis of What Was Not Said

the manuscripts are in the head,my dear. each time we fought,i scribble more. one day it became arranged when i was away from you, and the next day i will publish my hurt all over you- in the form of distaste. you ask why i am always quiet: i can't let the original fall into seasons to become snow, fallen leaves,crisp buds, unusual flowers i didn't want. i must plan them,so when it's done- the mistake is long buried inside with only cutting edges for an uneasy hold for you. you will never find that manuscript,for i run from you to hide myself from myself.