http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/01/daily-prompt-the-end/
I quit keeping secrets
one day
when the bomb inside of my stomach
threatened to detonate and
destroy me
and everyone around me.
It was not easy,
you see,
for the mask that clung to my face
for years upon years
would not budge,
as I stripped it off slowly at first,
but realized this was not the way
for skin peeled with it
leaving me
silently screaming,
writhing
in excruciating pain.
I understood that quitting
(in my case)
meant ripping off the band-aid
that had been
put on me
at an early age
with a glue that appeared
to become more adhesive
as each year passed.
The day I quit keeping secrets,
all hell broke loose
for quitting anything
that has become a part of who you are
is near impossible.
Looking back,
I remember this day vaguely,
in snap-shots…
I am sitting in a car with a woman
who keeps glancing at me,
nervously,
chattering away as if the silence,
if left unbroken,
will absorb us both,
casting us into some kind of
oblivion.
I am in a white room
sitting in a cushioned chair,
the woman holding my hand,
my hand that is so cold that
it feels dead.
I am in a new room
with a desk and windows,
being asked questions about a secret…
my secret.
Each question causes my face to redden,
more and more,
as I,
an embarrassed thirteen year old,
think…
“Don’t you know
that people don’t talk about these things,
as you ask me for details,
dirty details,
as if discussing weather?”
I am hiding behind a sofa,
a soda machine
humming to my left,
radiating heat to my body,
which is so cold that it feels as if it is
not mine. Not mine.
Not mine.
“Come out,”
(The officer says)
“Come and see your mother.”
But I cannot see my mother,
now that she knows.
I cannot see my mother.
I cannot see my mother,
now that she knows.
“Mom stop crying,”
(I plead to her
as she clings to me,
clings to me as if her life
depends on it)
“This isn’t your fault”
I say,
“This isn’t your fault”
Fault. Fault. Whose fault?
Guilt, Shame, Guilt, Shame.
Whose fault?
That day we went home,
his truck still in the drive way,
a testament of
unfinished business.
I listened to music
as if my life
depended on it
as she cried and cried,
stuffing big black garbage bags.
So many big black garbage bags.
I will always see those bags,
looking malicious
as if they were stuffed
with bodies
instead of clothes
and other
personal items.
Perhaps they were filled
with each and every secret,
each and every lie
that was ever told
to keep my secret.
Each bag sitting on the curb
waiting to be taken
to the dump,
as if erasing
any trace of him
will erase the past.
That is the day that I quit;
The day that I quit
keeping secrets.
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Very well written, personal and poetic. You have a talent!
Wow, I fell upon this poem accidentally (if there is such a thing). Powerful, as truth often is. I send you light and love, hopeful that your healing progresses. And do keep writing, it is a gift to us all.
Thank you. I appreciate your kind words and feedback greatly ๐
Gosh. This is very moving and powerful.
Thank you, and thank you for reading ๐