Secret

yesterday, i found an empty gun with a single bullet next to it, and the only thing on it was my name. i didn’t ask you why you didn’t fire it. i didn’t ask you why you bought a gun like a secret, like a dirty word that boys like you write in the stalls of dingy bathrooms in dirty high schools. i didn’t ask you why a shiny piece of metal got more exposure than me. yesterday, i tried to find the grip of your hand somewhere in the bedsheets, somewhere in the light, somewhere that wasn’t between the strands of my hair while you yanked and you pulled. i tried to find your hand and it was never where i wanted it to be. yesterday, i was the secret you only told behind closed doors, with the blinds drawn and the windows closed. yesterday, i was the secret that you never wanted anyone to know. let’s make something clear; i am no one’s private bedtime story. i am not the dust you sweep up when company arrives only to blow it all out when they leave. pardon the cliché, but i’m no one’s secret. go ahead, try and hide me. i’ll scream louder than before.