I’m tired of this old secret.


It drowned in the endless churning of my

washing-machine mind

long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,

languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate

dryer of a heart.


I’m too familiar with its satin surface —

the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,

the corresponding bump underneath,

the different textures (now worn faint

and smooth) that once marked

the subtle variations in shade —

and I’m tired of its constant presence

almost unnoticed

cradled in the palm of my right hand.

I’m tired of it.

And so I step back

and swing

my arm in one great resolute arch.

When,

satisfied,

I turn my back on the distant thud

that marks its far-off landing,

my hands find their way into my pockets.


It is still there,

lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint

and empty wrappers.