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?
2 comments:
"Silence is the only audience it can ever hold˝ ...
I have been struggling a lot with stories and secrets that I have been entrusted with- because these stories are not *mine* but they are entwined with my life story- I struggle with boundaries and what is permissible to share; and how to share what might be okay.
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