Carrying secrets is what I do—
From a quiet corner of a darkly finished wooden pew
While every head was bowed and eye closed
Summoned by the Sunday morning black light
I buried abominations deep—
Took twenty five years before they dared to
Deep for me, she said, checking my lungs,
My lab work, my reaction, my lab work again,
Checking all her boxes before
Checking my brain scans one more time—
Little illuminated fragmentary portraits peering into the Eden walls
Of every rebelliously beautiful thought I’ve ever
The manila folder in my backpack for months, deep as the
Intramuscular secrets injected weekly behind locked doors
Because I didn’t want to be a bother, a worry, known—
But also because I feared the I-told-you-so hauntings
Echoing down from my stained glass childhood mantra-like
Like tiny ticking masses I carry directly behind my eyes, so
When I walk into a room, everyone looks straight at them,
Smiles, and says, “Good morning” or, “How’s it going?”
And they sit there quietly, peering out onto my world,

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