The parts of you that are unknown
are the most lonely, dark lesions
beyond the reach of sunlight,
the untold that gutters to silence
across well-worn neural pathways -
shame is hot and black smoke
and nocturnal. Shame flamed
into consciousness; the face
of a barred owl turned, alert now
from watching post, or a scorpion roused
from its daytime lassitude - all that you hoped
was concealed enlivened from their hiding places.
And when the solitude of it distills
to the purity of a dew drop of pain,
you eventually name it,
- the juniper tree listens,
twists its bones,
grips the green spines of your words
so that what you reveal unburdens you,
because nothing delivers you from isolation
like the freedom from a secret.
Image from pixabay.