April 14, 2009

the truth...

I find myself lying,
Because I don’t think
They want to hear the truth.
The truth,
The small silver blade
Which I run across my skin.
Yes, that truth.
If I told someone, anyone,
How could they ever
Look at me again?
The truth is horrible.
Who does the sort of things I do
It doesn’t even make any sense
Yet somehow
In MY twisted mind
It does.

My stomach is tied in knots,
Fear overwhelms me,
Just THINKING about
Telling someone.
My secret.
MY secret
Passing from my lips
Into the ears of another.
How can I explain this
Behavior of mine?
How can they ever understand?
I don’t know if they can.
How could they?

Not much to say about this poem/prose just a little bit of ranting because I am frustrated and I have no clue how I am supposed to talk to that counselor person at my appointment...

Emmy R.

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