Untold

There's a story trapped within me
It will never be lived, much less even told
It will die with me.

Parts of it try to leak out here and there
Rumors fly, I am sure
But no one's really asking any questions

Some days it simmers and sinks down
Others it rumbles and boils
Rising like a geyser into my brain

I've acted it out hour after hour in my car
I've written it down over and over
But silence is the only audience it can ever hold

Between the lines, I wonder--
Why do secrets need telling,
And never moreso than when they can't be told?