Skeletons, you ask? Why, yes, ofcourse, don’t we all?
But they’re not destined for consumption here or elsewhere, for I trust no one else their secrets to keep. These skeletons are mine, and around them my possessive arms I stretch, protecting them, and myself, from judgement and potential harm.
But don’t my old wounds deserve to be left in peace?
Is it right that others should gain
at the expense of me?
I simply don’t like people being that close.
My life is my own, it’s details sacred, there will always be conditions attached to how and to whom I share.
These old bones, which creak as I walk, are pieces of me, my heart, my life, the pages of which are not open for the purpose of entertaining those who read their words, committing to memory each nuance and phrase.
I don’t fully trust the shadowed motivation of those who seek the revelations to consume.
Yes, mine is a bleak view of humanity.
Sometimes, though, sometimes, I pose the question?
Am I right (question, word choice)
to be so closed?
I mentally calculate how many days…..and wonder, will they be healed…..? Will I have their presence to explain?
As I ponder that question, those same old bones rattle a warning, ill at ease with the prospect of being exposed.
Pain, acute, guilt immediate, and back into the closet they go.
As once again I firmly shut the door, I stand back and admire my skeletons, painted a delectable shade of shame. They’re rather dusty now, mothballs in uncomfortable places.
But in the dark I wonder, is that smile or grimace upon each fleshless, concealed face?