Upon Reading Your Diary
"I left him out."You don't know what the words mean,
nestled in the scribblings that fill journal pages.
They were stored for manipulation later but
you didn't unpack them soon enough
and they left to find someone who would
make these words his own.
Is that what happens to ideas?
They move on, insisting to be used,
forcing themselves on one mind and then another
until they leave stains of magic-marker
on the dry wall of someone's consciousness.
Or are they a one time chance
destiny knocking like Beethoven's Fifth,
never to be perceived as more than notes?
Until they decide you must be in the shower
or just too busy to answer.
And when you walk back to the door, to see
who was there, and discover only an empty doorstep
and perhaps a calling card, to tell you that
you missed something important. You glance,
hoping to catch them leaving, but see only
a foot slipping past the corner.
The note falls from the pages, where you left it as
a bookmark so you could keep it close and read it often.
The illegible lines of prose
that tell your future-- speak of the present,
but never the past.
Never of the memories of what you had done before,
because he didn't know
of the hidden ache, the self-inflicted scars
of razor across your pulse.
The bruises and burns you so expertly hid
behind your nonchalance.
No one ever saw the door
to find behind it
the attic of your eccentricity,
the place kept for you.
The long rows of corrugated cardboard
and wooden chests filled with childhood.
The cartons of awkward, screaming teenage years.
The cobwebs spun in the
ancient boards erected
to block off innocent inquiries.
You longed to pry them off, and
have someone help to cut open the
dust-choked crates you can only
hope to destroy.
He was the skeleton key to a lock
you refused to reveal,
You didn't allow him to fit,
jiggled the handle and pretended it didn't work.
Every time you lay beside him;
He held your hand and watched you sleep,
He tried to pull you close,
slowly rubbed his thumb along your cheek,
stared at your sweaty face,
your body wrecked with nightmares.
He cried your tears, and shook you slightly,
You wouldn't hear his knock...
You have left him out. And he has left
to find someone
who can use his help.
:: Prose :: Poetry :: Novels :: Fanfiction :: About :: Home ::
Midnight Musings copyright Meiran. Layout and Design by Cyn W.
Brought to you by :: Cerulean Dreame :: Erised Designs ::