Coffee stained napkins
with naked truths
written all over in red ink.

Nothing worth publishing,
not even something
you’ll let friends see.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

The mean things you say to yourself
when you’re not acting cool
in front of others.

The fantasies you dare not speak
in front of your mother
or even your closet lovers.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

The stuff you deny in mixed company
even though you hate to lie.
That **** you want people to find.

But you won’t ever show them
because you think you’re ****** up;
so you lock it up inside that chest.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.

These are the kinds of words
that get torn up and thrown out
before you leave the café.

This is that real ****
that only you can read.