Unread Poetry

When I look over my wrist to see what poetry
I’ve missed, I see the dried ink now—
It’s darker, no longer pouring from the pen.
It’s unusable. Some would say broken.

I look over my thighs and what they had to hide—
Scars no one has seen, no one has read.
That poetry remains untouched.
I look over my stomach and waist,
Where little secrets hide every day.

But I wish it were wrong, that it was a lie—
That when I say I haven’t tried to end my book without a goodbye,
I wish it weren’t true.
I wish I could say I’ve tried to keep writing, to keep going on.

But some poetry you read over again,
And it still stings. It still pulls you in—
Like the dark that conceals the night,
Or the shadow that never ends.

My poetry will keep going on,
For I’m the only one who reads it.
And when it comes to my work,
I don’t know about you—
But I scratch out line after line,
Wanting it to be perfect.
By that time, it’s a sticky mess,
Red ink dripping from my wrist.

Yes, I do write.
Yes, only for me.
Because I’m the only one who has the key to my diary.
I’m the only one who holds the pen.
The only one who knows all about my unread poetry.