Secrets

Under your bed hide monsters,

slimy, scaly, animated creatures,

your own creations.

You wish them dead, but they are you,

are they not?

 

Like the dread that snakes its way

under your skin

before your pencil hits the paper,

you wish your mind was muslin

unsullied by thoughts that would

stain the paper, and then you’ll be caught.

 

Your closet, with its disarray

is just another disguise

for your totalitarian being.

It’s a disguise so you’re not

accused of crimes you committed

when you were wide awake.

 

But you’re birthing phoenixes

to kill freaks, to pluck them out

like worms in an infested marsh.

To root out rebellions, to know all.

 

See that metal edge of that bolted trunk,

my blood-spewing finger,

her tear-spilling eyes?

Some secrets die defending themselves.

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