I do not need to hide anything here,
He will never read
Anything by this haunted harlot.
Poetry escapes him
And eludes him.
Even the most obvious
of scribblings
Furrows his brow
And makes
His head ache.

And yet, he knows the facts
He knows the truth,
And must know that this is where I come,
To purge and re-emerge?
How can he not want to read,
To see,
To understand?
We will never fully know each other -
Perhaps, as he suggests,
This is for the best.