Secrets,
Buried so deeply beneath my veins,
Like cadavers in a riverbed,
Stinking and swelling,
Rotting and bloated,
Memories of ugly things long since passed,
With each new memory of pain,
I dig it a grave in my flesh,
Carving open a hole with a sterling shovel,
Where I place it,
Deep enough to never find again,
The scar, meaning it's forgotten,
Condemning eyes graze my skin so slowly,
Memorizing every well placed grave,
As though my cemetery is not beautiful,
I curiously wonder if many people have these graves,
If so, where do they hide them?
For they have no outer scars like me,
They smile, knowingly,
Yet they will never know,
Ever,
Only others with similar graves could ever understand,
What it is like to have to bury every memory of pain,
That the world vomited up on you,
I smile,
Somewhat regretfully,
As the morning sun glimmers upon freshly dug graves,
New memories that have been buried,
Along with the other corpses,
That lay,
So rotting beneath my skin...
