This desperate need to grasp a pen and
turn the chaos of my thoughts into
conceivable sins is
overpowering.

All these stories burned into my flesh
demand reparation and
the echoes from my past
still etched into my bones
ache for retribution which
is not mine to give.

Yet, still they continue to beg
for the relief of confession, to
be freed from the suffocating confines
of the abyss masquerading as
my mind.

But, I can't.
Not this time.
Some secrets should be left
to die alone in the dark.