Secrets

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She broke the news, I was surprised.

I didn’t feel betrayed, but detached,

as if I were staring at her through a glass wall.

I should have known that with each passing second

secrets are formed, locked, and buried

only to surface like corpses washed ashore.

 

It was a happy occasion but I was morose,

I had to grudgingly admit that

One could never really know a person,

And that everything I didn’t know

And would never know would only grow

like weeds amidst pasture.

Not For Rent

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The splash of dark blue ink on the wall attracted every eye that entered the one-room house, so he covered it with a layer of paint–it was always about appearances, about appearing to be tidy and spotless.

Soon he moved out and the years passed, and with time came decay, and all the numerous coats of paint tenants had slathered on the walls started peeling, and falling in chunks revealing the secrets underneath, the untold stories– the scratch marks, the ink spots, the graffiti, the handprints, and the marks left by unmoved furniture.

Nobody stays in it anymore; the stale, musty reek of  ugly secrets that rises from the house wards off everybody.