there's a small wooden box
in my dusty attic
nobody has ever dared to
come close to it
thinking about it is scary
and I must admit
my therapist told me not to
but I open it after midnight
and stare at what's inside
my eyes burn
and my heart starts to race
they all think I've forgotten
about it
but it's your heart
and I kept a tiny piece of it
—a confession
YOU ARE READING
an ocean of teardrops
PoetryI avoid surfaces with reflections, avoid facing reality. At the sea, where I last washed away my scars only to have them appear in different places, different faces. And so I try comforting myself through imaginary conversations with the people I lo...
