I don't know how to bottle it all up

To be honest, I dread it

Because, think about it,

What if I bottle up a lot, to a point where the bottle explodes

And its pieces pierce and tear all my organs, making them bleed, until everything that is red becomes purple and

Letting everyone see what they aren't supposed to see?

Or what if the more I put in the bottle, the more it continues to grow and expand,

In all dimensions,

Until the day it squishes my lungs, to an extent where it becomes suffocating that I die and no one would ever know the truth behind my death?

Or even worse, what if every single thing I put in the bottle vanishes because the bottle eats up everything?

If that's the case, then there wouldn't be any breaking point, where my brain tells me to stop

So, at some point, sooner or later, I will die

I will die without knowing anything about myself

The moment I finish contemplating these what-ifs,

I come to realize that my hands have already spilled everything, everywhere,

Out of fear,

Out of shiver

And I end up feeling like an 'idiot' because,

"Adults Aren't Supposed To Act This Way!"

And I am, supposedly, an 'ADULT'

An 'Adult'

Or an 'idiot', forever feeling anger burning inside her head

While also being aware of how this anger is- slowly but steadily- feeding on her brain.

She couldn't do anything to stop it,

Or her, from becoming a brainless idiot with no home to sleep in.