Secreted Past Doings

Things that I was afraid to
tell you
made me yearn for a closeted
space where
with eyes, so haunted, I could
stream out rivulets from
long-clogged ducts.

I could close my mind there
and never hear your change
in heartbeat, or see the
sheet white across your
ruddy skin; rather I could
shut it out, scream out loud,
or crawl into fetal position so
I could die

I've kept these secreted past
doings so long that I have
conveniently lost touch
with them as if they never
existed.

© Doniell Cushman. All Rights Reserved. This poem or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
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