the glinting, shimmering bottles on the shelf seem to be glaring at me
their penetrating stares create a twisted knot of guilt in my stomach
my friends come over, asking and asking for the invisible secrets in the clear glass
I deny their knowledge, another layer of guilt befouling me
a few of them have watched me unscrew my bottles
and they ran from me, as far as they possibly could
but one day,
he comes over to my house
my house with my shelf of glass bottles and quiet old me
he isn't interested in me or my bottles
but I am intrigued by his innovative, analytical presence
so loud and harsh are the colors surrounding him
but they are hiding something, I am sure of it
and suddenly,
a bottle falls out of his aura of light
he reaches down to pick it up hastily,
and looks at me, for my hand is on his fallen bottle
he looks at me with those secretive, manic eyes,
and then looks at the bottles on my shelf
he picks one out, and I let him open it,
for I am gently unscrewing his glass
the secrets fly out of both shining bottles
and enter the jars of our mind
I look at his face, which mirrors my own
the intensity of our understanding gazes is why I place my hand on his
and neither of us run away

I tell my secrets to children
in the form of fairy tales
A "Once upon a time," is enough
to quiet down their wails
and I spin stories as well as spiders
weaving webs that a lost child
must navigate the tangled trails
with cleverness and wit
sharper than any sword
more accurate than any arrow
I speak of children who questioned
the established path of rejection
and this misguided idea of reciprocity,
"You must suffer because it happened to me."
Because my blessing in life was not brute strength
but a clear mind and clever tongue.
I tell my secrets to children
so that they may grow smarter because of them.

I like how our hands seem to have their own
conversations, apart from our mouths.
I like how we tell things we can't seem to say out loud.
In these spaces between,
Our fingers meet and they fit.
Perfectly.
No walls, no secrets

I like how our hands know how to be together
In times we can't seem to.

Is it me? Or does the years feel like it has been repeated?
I don't even know who's real or not
Am I just a toy to you?
We were the closes friends
And you just threw me away.

Was I not that important to enter your life?
The next day, I saw your smile, bigger than what I saw before
If you didn't like me at all
You shouldn't have played with my feelings
That friendship of yours has succeeded
Ours? hasn't.
Every year, friends of mine isolate themselves away from me
It was like the seasons,
Making new friends, old friends leave

I don't know if I could trust people with my secrets anymore
I'll just try and keep the friends I have now
After I lose all of them, I will gladly lock myself away
And remove any connections
The only person I can trust, is myself...

Secrets
Secrets
Secrets
Secrets.....
Why do these exist?
They tear me apart bit by bit.
I'm so tired of all these lines,
"You can't know now just wait a bit."
Please either tell me everything or leave.
I'm done with secrets.

sewing time together,
we scribe our narrative,
your lace stitches leather,
like a seamstress.

failures don't forget me,
i'm their stone to engrave,
designed imperfections
and a chiseled face.

close enough to notice,
constellations are yarn,
unthreading in the distance,
these days seam apart.