I wouldn’t tell you where I write my stories,
You said you’d still find it,
And you might,
Don’t blame me if you come looking and don’t like what you see.
This is where I let everything out,
My words can play in the white meadows here,
And I can play with them,
And mix them around.
Combine our stories with other ones that you don’t know,
Or choose words for ease or rhythm.
These confessionals reveal a lot but not everything, and I wouldn’t want you to read these and then bypass talking to me, as if you know my thoughts because you’ve read them here all musical.
I just hope you wouldn’t lay your catty eyes on them and they’d become unnerved dinner plates,
And you’d slink away all skittish like you do
Because you saw a word like “love”, or “care” or “think about you”.