Blank. That’s right.
Not because I have nothing to say this time.
But because I have too much.
What kind of writer has secrets I ask myself?
Expose yourself
they say
Tell of that time
you
Peed in your pants
Gave 20 desperate calls
Loved and lost
Kissed a woman
Hated your parents
Casually forgot a lover
Wished your dog was dead
Crushed a heart and grinned
Undressed before the mirror
Tell it all
In words
And painful, twisted strokes
In sighs
And anguished murmurs
Laugh as you reveal
Your demented passions
And shallow heart.
You secretive writer
You counterfeit soul
Lie.
