of answers

Words languishing
on yellowing paper,
corners rusted brown.
Today,
among ancient diaries
I found an old letter.
Undelivered. Written
a day or
a century ago.
it doesn’t matter
anymore. The letter
that was never sent.
Between its writing
and reading,
time cracks
as my questions
find their own answers

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of confessions

Almost 2000 page-views, and your head is reeling already.

You dreamed of being popular last night. Of being known as the woman who dared to bare her soul.

Are you really, though, baring your soul? You hide behind anonymity. You refer to yourself in the second person, as though you’re disowning everything you have done or been. Not so brave now, are you?

Why not say I, I did this? I was raped at seven. I am the one who’s always leaving things unfinished. I couldn’t ever love anything. I was the other woman in his life? I want to throw it all out into the vastness of the universe, and see what it brings back.

But you are not ready to own up. Not just yet.

Is anyone else ready to confess?