the seas of pain hurt before dawn,
before returning itself to the ocean,
escaping from the light it turns to blue anemones,
to be lost in a wave or waves of the memories,
discord turns in stillness,
the thought of ourselves hurt long before
and still after the first death,
men
women
dressed in the color of the soul breathe under
cover(s),
the children of our imagination laugh like a
bird of freedom dipping its wings into the sun
some of the winds of words sleep after the hurricane

there are secrets that I
have trouble admitting even for myself.
and less yet more than myself
admitting to others.
I can spill some dark secrets
some entirely perverse
damaging
degrading
killing
secrets and
yet there are some that I cannot
I cannot
even talk or think about
or imagine
and therefore I will not speak
you will not know.

I feel like a
toffee rose petal
with touches of the snapdragon blush
brushing into burnt umber
somehow and barely
holding the weight of water droplets
that have built up, piled on, drowned me
from years and years of thunderstorms