Writing My Secrets

Pages lined like the rings of a tree,

Dotted, scratched and scarred with lettering,

As angry and inflamed as a rash,

Heated words writhe in agony on the narrow lines they pace,

The flicking of pages dizzying them,

The opening of a notebook filtering beams,

Of glaring silver-white light,

Burns them like glass growing hotter under sunlight,

The page is entrusted with secrets,

Never revealed by sealed and bleeding lips,

Stored in the chambers of decaying hearts,

They rot and bruise like apples,

Until the day they die,

The ink, red, blue, black glistens,

Like liquid diamonds,

The notebook will never spill the secrets,

The decaying secrets of a damaged soul,

Wrapped in the yellowing pages,

Preserved as if they were frozen,

Frozen, yet raw and bloody with despair.

The End

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