I read, like an open book
All others can see the words written on my pages.
I contain tales, read as secretive,
A hushed whisper that only a handful have seen.
But how many times has this booked been checked out?
A sea of white masks, deadpan through the years
So cherished once, now faded, emotionless.
Forgotten both to me, and I to them.
My secrets are secrets no more -
I own my past, without connecting to it.
I am an open book, because who has to connect with a story?
People can project on a tale,
As what better to have in a confidant, than a horror story?
Something you can read from the comfort of your bed,
A scary, scarred, stream of words that still seem otherworldly.
Frankenstein’s monster will never be faced –
So, too, is this failures’ life.
You understand, you say.
You sympathise, you say.
But how can you, when I checked myself out long ago.
I wrote this not long before my abusive ex husband left me. Reading it now, I can't believe how or why I kept convincing myself he was my 'everything'. I was a broken, empty shell. I will never be the person I was when I met him - vibrant, charismatic, confident - but I am slowly piecing my life back together.
