My secrets lie beneath the blue-black ink on the pages of a stolen notebook. They are recorded with infinite care, and scribbled out with equal precision, meaning the words are illegible…yet so concretely there.
The yellowing pages silently whisper my confession back to me, and the sprawl of dark pigment promises to never tell.
I turned the indentations over the page into flowers, and wrote poetry about the truth being hidden in plain sight, for beneath the stains I see myself laid out bare and bright for the world to see, if only they stayed long enough.
Sometimes I wonder if one day the words will be free, and the sketched flowers not a way to conceal, but a bold declaration of what is, and what forever will be.
But, at least for now, I am content with writing my secrets in stolen notebooks, and hiding them beneath more ink.