On the dark secluded pathways
to hidden valleys crafted out of
cellophane joy,
there is a secret that trickles beneath the mud,
that squelches underneath her shoes when she
walks there in
her mind.
She knows that there are many things
the world is,
and many things it isn’t,
and she knows that sometimes it’s hard to decipher
which one of the two makes
her hand slip.
She heard her mother had a friend,
who swallowed all her breathing
and gave it to some fate she hoped
was better than what she had.
No one understood,
that happiness was her porcelain mask.
Or maybe they didn’t know
she was an actor.
But when she was young they ran away
from broken glass and memories
of when her daddy shot his gun,
and sometimes she wishes she had stayed to leave,
or be taken,
but she knows there is no point in trying
to staunch love with soaking rags.
And she could name a thousand reasons,
for each of the ragged seams.
This one, she says, this one’s for her family
wandering in fumes and turned fish-like because they can’t breath without those liquids.
This one’s for the way they never know,
that some scars can never heal.
Some places aren’t meant to be touched
by gravel hands.
But then again, some words should not be spoken,
some things should not be tried,
for knowledge that there is no end.
And then there’s that deep one,
that she says is for the world,
for the bruises on that child’s face,
the ribs that stretch the skin,
the tears that streak the cheeks of that one old man,
the desire in the heart of that woman standing on the edge.
Well now there’s one that’s dying,
there’s one that cannot love.
There’s those that just need saving,
from others,
from themselves
There’s that girl across the street,
and you can hear her screaming.
There’s those that don’t know how to help
or who just don’t
want helping.
She knows the world is a concept,
that many can’t conceive,
or possibly believe,
or maybe they all deny it.
She knows the world is many things,
she knows that many wish to leave.
But there is a secret along the pathway to recovering.
A secret to joy,
but not really,
she supposes sometimes people just don’t see.
A secret to memory,
regret,
pain, and anger,
fear, and blades.
Love and all the things that are shoved in crevices,
that people don’t like to look at because they’re sharp,
and tear the corners of their imperfectly perfected illusions.
And often she thinks that secrets aren’t
really secrets,
but things that people just don’t see,
or pretend they don’t believe.
Just like beauty in the sorrow,
or the bloody scars beneath her sleeve.
