The Secret

  I cannot put it in words.
  I cannot commit it to an empty page.
  I cannot record it on a tape.
  I cannot speak of it in anyway.
  I cannot divulge it to anyone.
                My little secret.
                My most cherished possession.
                My reason for being.
                The gist of what I am.
                My past and present.
                My becoming.
                My everything.

                My everything.

  I cannot share it.
  I cannot let anyone know of it,
                             lest they rub me of it.
                                    Lest it betrays me.
                                     Oh, yes.
                                         Lest it betrays me.

  I cannot trust it, you see?
  For it burns inside of me.
  One cannot trust something that burns so brightly,
                                                              so desperately,
                                                   that it blinds my mind’s very eye,
                                                      and sends heat waves through the rest of my body.
  I cannot trust something that enslaves me.
                                          That devours me internally.
  I can only live with it.
                        With the pain of it.
                                 The bitter-sweetness of it.
                                      The gleam of it.
                                           Until I die of  it,
  Ah, the thought of it.
       Ah, the feel of it, inside of me.
            Ah, if I could only part with it.

                              If I could only let it go.

March 15, 1997