243/365

sometimes the poem that needs to be written
is burrowed too deeply under someone else skin.
while you want to expose the story and this sliver
of shared reality, you know, he owns more of it
than you do and it feels selfish to expose him like that.
the raw vulnerability you so sanctimoniously flaunt
makes her uncomfortable, so you’re forced to keep the poem-
that one that is yearning to live in the world-
safe. hidden. like
a secret. or an affair. an abortion.
alcoholism. or a mental health relapse.

only when we expunge the world of shame
can all the poems be fully written