Secret
For the one this poem is meant for, I must release the build up of words that have been stirring inside me.
I was so quiet.
I forgot the boxy and fluent sounds of syllables and the ribbons of high strung words.
I forgot I was allowed a voice as my vocals were claimed by my restless thoughts.
Racing thoughts of doubt and second guesses reigned with an iron fist positive that there was a reason everything felt wrong.
Raging hormones, fleeting anxiety, always out of reach anxiety. Which was it? Which was driving me to drive a wedge between us? Were they as involved as I thought?
I’m not at fault, she claimed. You’re the problem here, she didn’t say.
She didn’t have to.
She thrust the responsibility onto me, carving a line between us, eyeing it pointedly. A burden to contemplate and toss and turn in my hands.
Like holding a newborn, a delicate dilemna, a ticking grenade, I contemplated and tuerned this notion in my hands, examining the angles.
I’m not at fault burst into sparks in my hands reddening my palms.
I saw the marks, the scorch marks, felt the heat rise from my raw skin, saw a truth rise from my ashes.
I drew the sword from the stone and read italicized words, felt the words sink into my pit that was my stomach:
She expects the truth even when she can’t give it out herself.
