There Are No Secrets Here
Not since the day you appeared on my porch
with your head split in two.
You dropped a crowbar at my feet
and invited me to poke around
inside the mess you house.
I’ve been white-water rafting
down your stream of conscious mind.
I ride your thoughts to their origin,
a torrent of paranoia.
My questions are breeding questions;
these I am not sure I’m allowed to ask.
I’ve got a sense of curiosity
threatening to render an interrogation.
The dogs are biting at my ankles.
There is no time for flaws.
Dinner is at seven.
The first course will be criticism.
I’ll string a yard of twine across your skull
and pull it tight,
desperate to spare you from their venom,
but even sealing the sides of your severed brain
cannot guarantee immunity.
You’d better build a bigger closet,
shelve the skeletons, and force a smile.
I’ll hold your hand through supper
if it will ease your grief,
but you’ll need to swallow a shot of Tylenol
if you’re to make it out the door.
I’ll love you, darling,
until the sharks expose you
over under-cooked cheesecake.
I can’t hold you together indefinitely.
Emotion is bound to leak
from the sloppy stitches of your head.
I’ll take the blame.
It’s my fault for dragging your rotting mind
into this hard-hearted home.
I promised I’d never leave,
but I never divulged that I was raised
to be a coward.
Megan Donofrio is a currently a Creative Writing student at the University of Illinois. She harbors a deep fascination with dark poetry and credits musical geniuses and brilliant lyricists as her greatest influence.