How much of me should I share? 

I’m silenced by my own suspicions.
The idea that I’m the only one,  

the only person to have experienced…
The turmoil of a broken home.

The bravery of telling their story.

The bruises revealed underneath make-up.

The risk of unfolding a lie.

The uncertainty behind each word.

The fear of being told, “That’s not the truth.”

The need

to find shadows

because 

There is where my story has always hid.
                                        Trembling

You ask me to share my story? 

“The writing is good.”
There is always

an editor,

or voices

that do not want to be heard, 

to be apart of

disassembling the art of the mirage,

which is her. 

If after all is said, 

what then? 
You can change the screen,

my story is carried with me 

beneath bleeding skin. 
Can I share? 

Use the paper to heal.