I put away my best earrings in the shelf-
a little box in the inner-most corner, hidden from you
They glimmer even against the grubby, woody insides
Neatly I layer racks of pressed clothes over,
make-up so thick, you’d never see past
I pile books over, my screens of intellect
smelling of days you’ve never seen.
you wouldn’t know what lies under
in my corner,
down the cracks and wooden deeps
I keep that for me
only me to see
I stuff in them those times,
tales that bear my real,
which even now coerce
me to cringe, hide my face.
which shame me like when
my skirt flew up,
in class three.
My corner where only I
can dig them up the grave before
I bury them again.
The key to my corner remains
as shrouded as what it maintains.
hangs around my neck
my shirt’s embroided too heavy,
more than most of its kind.
I crush and stab this crazy
damned fucking madness.
for it is foolish;
it asks to hand you
the key, dig up my relics,
lay them for you.
for you to see, inspect, judge and decide.
I couldn’t take,
I know, that definite embrace
when you’d intendingly look away;
for you’d know: if you looked, I’d know it’s the last.
I choose to keep my corner dark
where only spiders lurk and monsters crawl.
they thrive in my darkness, they don’t leave.