Ironic comfort

I think it's ironic how I'm more comfortable writing something that strangers read than I am conversing with someone I've known my whole life.

I can put pen to paper without a second thought, well aware of the pairs of strange eyes that will read into my deepest thoughts and fears.

But when I try to speak to familiar pairs of eyes, my heart pounds and my mind jumbles and I freeze.

I'm suddenly very aware of my shaking hands and my darting eyes and my stilted breathing.

I can picture that blemish on my chin that I couldn't cover with makeup and the fact that I haven't spoken in so long that my mouth feels stuck to itself and my tongue feels swollen.

But why?

Maybe it's just easier to open up to someone who has no idea who I am.

They can't judge me because they don't know me, right?

Or maybe I'm really just talking to myself.

But then again, I'm not even comfortable with myself.