Shellacked

I couldn't think of anything else to say than all of the most horrendous things I could think of. And I thought of what my mother told me, what her mother probably told her, if you've nothing nice to say better not to say anything at all. Keep things to yourself, push it down and pull something nicer over. My insides are a black tangled mess with layer upon layer of gloss and positive shellack, you could cut inside me and look at the lines and know my age. And I couldn't say what I wanted to say, I never can, and so I pressed it down. One day these words will shoot out past my toes, through my fingers and eyes, all the wickedness in me will be expunged, a hollow shell in its place, a me, ready to be filled again and again. But with what, I wonder. With what?