Blank pages peek back at me,
taunting me with their emptiness
pleading for me to fill them.
My mind is blank,
of everything but that secret stuff.
Those private memories
and dumb mistakes.
Believe it or not,
somethings are just too personal for poetry!
My poetry is like an essay
that only lists the points
but never goes in dept.
Only skips and skims
but never getting to the issue,
because my heart, my life,
was just too personal
for prying eyes and intrigued ears.
How could i tell poetry,
that i never felt worthy of anybody’s love,
that they were moments after having sex,
that i just wanted to rub my skin raw.
That no matter how many years past,
I will never forget when he held me down,
touched me in private, immature place
and threatened me never to tell.
I probably shouldn’t say,
how I hated my childhood,
and the scars and the bruises
my attempts of suicide,
or was that attempts at seeking attention?
I probably shouldn’t say how i wished
that my mother had fought to keep us,
that she could say I love you
and not just show it,
but that’s too personal…
should be held back
and stored in deep dark closets
where bones collect dust.
I shouldn’t tell poetry that i believed that I had an addiction,
an addiction to touch
an addiction to be close
or next to someone.
That I was secretly needy
and constantly needed comfort.
I should keep that back;
keep back my fears of being alone and neglected.
afraid that everybody can see the names of every man that I’ve ever been with.
I’m tired of hiding,
tired of shielding
are just too personal to share.