The Eiffel Tower is on my secret book.
The one that holds my memories of you.
Not the fairy-tale; the one you took
The wrenching pain is all it knew.

The book itself is pleasant to see.
But reading its contents always makes me cry.
Each time the pain becomes new to me.
My hell written down in a black dye.

The book is mine and the story is mine,
But the girl who wrote it isn’t me.
That broken girl woven into every sad line.
The one person I never thought I’d be.

To burn my secret book, many times I have thought.
Maybe the flames would strip grief of its power.
Instead it will stay a reminder of my life’s lot.
My secret pain, in my secret book with the Eiffel Tower.