secrets don't make friends,
but they do make war.
a battle between my pacifist mind
and the pieces missing from it,
from all of the words I have yet to speak.
I try to keep the peace,
but I only know how to give it away.

what do you do
when you've become the skeleton
in your closet:
the one that will still be in tact
when tranquility crumbles;
the bones of a sinner found in the ruins
of a home that tried to be pure.

what do you do
when you've become the monster
your father searched for in your childhood:
the one he tried to scare away
with a bible verse and a visit to the confessional.

what do you do
when honesty is lodged in your throat,
but you rearrange the sentences
to fit the script you've been handed?

when the bible verses stop working,
when what you've built is merely rubble at your feet,
when the ink on the script begins to run,
you are left with destruction,
but you are left with the truth.