Secrets are gifts. They don’t belong just everywhere. A secret lives where lives Love.
I have my grandmother’s stories within me,
and my mother’s, and yours—
Why do I have yours?
I have someone else’s anger, a tragedy from another place in time
Where I wasn’t, where I’ll never be – except in the future of their past
that is already a memory
Numberless faces read out their stories and not one I could tell not to
Like I could not tell you
“I don’t want your stories!” I scream now when it’s too late—
Waking up from a dream, and sleeping into another
Why do I still find you near?