There are things no one knows and never need know. They’re merely splintered shards that have been scattered like chicken feed under the sofa, behind the door…deep in the woods at the back of the house.
And there, they should stay.
Plucking them out of obscurity, chancing their sharpness will cut my thickened skin is needless. No one knows they’re there. Leave them.
Stare at the stars. Stay perfectly still.
I tell myself that I believe the things I don’t know won’t hurt me. That I believe what I didn’t see can’t cry out. I leave the unknown to weaken and wither, trusting the sharp edges will dull and diminish in hiding.
I once thought my shards were secrets, but I’ve learned that secrets are soft lips pressed against matted hair and light, breathy whispers in curious ears. They are flighty things meant to be shared by children on gravel fields and women huddled in coffee houses.
There are no screams, only choked murmurs I can barely make-out, suspended in the air and like dead falling leaves they cover the ground in cracked fragments all around me.
No, I don’t have secrets. My shards slither in from the trees and my heart-racing, sweat-waking terror will be whispered to no one.
© 2012 The Wrought Writer