I lived on

the brink of knowledge,

I wanted to learn it all,

but, then,

I didn’t want to.

He is something I knew,


whose terrain

I could lay claim to

reasonably well,

as was mine to him —

but there were things

we kept unnamed,

pieces of ourselves

we clung to.

They weren’t lies


they weren’t nearly

that extravagant,

and we had never

lent what we had

to that level of

dramatic machination.

They were more

like murky secrets,

concealed and


to even

our own

conscious selves

and we allowed

these transgressions

of one another,

these false walls with

hidden doors,



into clandestine,

and cloaked

labyrinths of truths

that were far too

filthy to divulge,

too loaded

and horrible

to give away.

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