Confessions:

They weren't created

To make us sound cool

Or look pretty.


They were meant

To make us taste the blood

That we never shed.


They aren't always

As simple as perfume-scented love-notes

Slipped nervously into the hands

Of someone you hardly know.


They can be as dire

As the details

That spill from an honest criminal's lips

Proving his guilt

Sickening the jury

Allowing the clarity of a set date

On which the monster will be slain.


They aren't something

We can stand to dissect too much

Once we have them all written down.

All they're going to do

Is tarnish the world's perception of us, anyway.

Why worry about our syntax?


They weren't made

For jokes

Or church

Or truth-or-dare

Or poetry.

Perhaps they were made

Simply for the dark, scarce rooms

That are the minds

Of cowards.


Confessions

Taste of bitterness

Sting like salt in a wound

Have all the power

To tear a person's whole **** world apart

With a gesture as small

As a nod of one's head.


They're the things we wish we could forget

The big mistakes

That make us want to pour ourselves

A large glass of Selective Memory

And settle in for the evening.


And, in order to get them off of her chest

A trembling poet

With the roar of a lion

And the heart of a scaredy-cat

Will wrap them all up in metaphor

Until she barely recognizes them

Then feed them to the dogs

That make up the rest of the world

For dinner.