And still

You demand more.

More confession. More pieces of life
encapsulated, shrunk down to size
and ripped from mind, so I can
expose all of my secrets. Do you
hope to see inside and come away
with a picture of the woman? An
autobiography in poetry for
the masses so they can say they
know me.

And you

don't have any idea

what this does. The pain
this reflection causes for
my spirit. Even now stilled,
grounded by remembrance,
yet you want more.
You are a selfish suitor,
a hungry beau that refuses to
be filled without learning
everything. All the mysteries
I've held for so long. Spilled,
as I am gutted of all the ugly.

I'm not sure when I'll
feed you again. So be happy
with the last regurgitation
It may be a while.


WhiteRose