I call it a mercy—
my buried pretense,
my unspoken lie,
but a guilty conscience is
a gunshot wound—
it never
really
heals.
It’s not a secret
if the truth
would break her,
so I let the bullet
lodge inside my ribs,
rusting–
latent, lethal,
it waits.
It’s not a secret.
I wrap her in gauze
so she won’t see me
tear at my shaken eyes
or dry the
red rivulets staining
my cheeks.
I hold my scream,
knowing silence
is my only asset,
as I claw at the ground,
digging trenches
to hide her heavy head.
It’s not a secret
when I hold my tongue–
a tortured hostage
wailing to the sky:
There’s nothing to tell.
Tell me your deepest secret—
if you do, I’ll keep it.
though that bullet rusts
inside me,
and my body rejects this
inept allograft.
I am not your secret.
I carry my silence,
a dirty metal punishment
for my shaking hands’ dishonesty,
while my blood
threatens to escape
my thin flesh armor.
But still I hold it—
because I would rather hear
my own spearing death rattle
than endure another
moment
of her ache.
I can keep a secret
but this is not a secret.
