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What would you say if you read all this?
I often ask just that.
On one hand
I desperately want you

To read it, that is.

But on the other hand
I know better
You probably wouldn't like it much.
And I don't blame you.
Maybe I should just get rid of it
You wouldn't like that much either
Because once you told me
Well, many things.
But you said poetry is part of the soul
You erased part of my soul
Once, too.
And I've been trying to rewrite it
On scraps of paper
But the words never come out right
Except when I know
They're safe
For the whole world to see
And I know you never will.

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