And Then What

And so, I was told
if you don’t want anyone to know something
then don’t tell anybody
and then your secret will be safe with me.

I get that now.

I was told that there are people
who can keep a secret
and manage to keep their cards
close to their vest (so no one sees)
and on the opposite side,
we all know
there are people who you can
and people who you cannot trust.

Or so,
I was told.

I have to admit
that I have opened my mouth
when I should have kept it closed.
I have exposed
or hurt
or sacrificed confidentiality
and destroyed the sanctity
and the truth of anonymity.
I get it. . .

Back to when I was young
and just another juvenile delinquent
or another statistic;
or back when I was handcuffed and clasped
to a bench in the precinct
I was told “Don’t tell them nothing,”
by someone
who told them everything,
including my name,
rank and serial number –
and thus
add another charge to the list.
Might as well, anyway, right?
My ship was sinking fast
and since I was going down anyway
why not sink me faster
so I can drown
and no one else
would ever know the truth.

There are those in the world
who use others for firewood
or who burn bridges
or who burn loved ones
to keep themselves
from feeling cold.

I was told: DTA
Don’t
Trust
Anyone

I know all about this
and yet,
I wonder why we put so much trust
in untrustworthy souls,
hoping to change them,
or if nothing else
we find us in a position
hoping to self -destruct and expose ourselves
so the world around us blows up
and then . . .
our surroundings
match the mismatched feelings we felt
when looking at our life
and wishing we were somewhere,
someplace, or someone else

Why do we trust the untrusted,
and the unworthy, and why do we sign up
or volunteer for the betrayal.

I know people on the street
who don’t trust their own Mother
yet
they buy bags of dope
by the bundle
and trust a stranger
to sell them poison.

I have seen people open up
wholeheartedly, and me included,
only to be laughed at behind the back
and bragged about in water-cooler conversations
or in the pantries at work
or be the topic after lunch in the locker rooms
at the gym.

I admit
that I have spoken
or revealed things out of anger
or resentment.

I have eyes.
I see.
I have ears.
I hear.

But what I do not have
is the time
it takes to go back and forth
or play the games.

I have no time for this
or for anything else
that lead to disloyal gains,
and while I have admittedly
done or said the wrong things,
I admittedly and openly say
that I need to do things
differently—that is, of course,
If I want to be happy.

Or at minimum, I have to change
if I want to be better
than who I was.

No one can persecute me
worse than me.
No one.

No one can settle the aftermath
of our past disputes|
especially when we keep them alive
and allow them to thrive on the meat
of our sanity.

Let sleeping dogs lie –
or let liars lie too
What’s the difference?

I have no place to point
or judge, persecute
or execute a punishment
nor do I have the right
to sentence anyone else
to a term of life
or death.

I have no right
to stand in line to cast the first stone
or be the one to judge those who lied
or cheated
or stepped out, or otherwise
lied to their loved ones
and pretended that hey, look,
everything’s fine . . .
I understand this all too well
and nothing is ever fine
when the word “fine,” is only used
to define our feelings
as some kind of mild distraction
because rest assured,
half the time
someone tells you
“everything’s fine,”
just know that
everything is not fine.

I understand the suggestion
that time heals all wounds, however
some wounds are timeless
and boundless, ongoing,
and objectively, time moves.
I get that
but subjectively,
sometimes
time can stand still
and words bleed like knives
that stab the spine
and pierce the skin of the soul
within.

I was told trust no one
and then you will never be disappointed
and yet,
I was told that no man is an island
and that man cannot live on bread alone,
and to be “the man.”
you have to beat “the man,”
but what if the man you need to beat
is no place else
but the man within?

Then what?

I have held and hurt
and pained my hands
because my grip was too tight.

I held on too long
and at my own expense
because my fear was . . .
what would I do
if the only identity I had
was not my identity anymore?

What if everything I believed was all bullshit?
And it was.

Then what?

What if the blueprint
and the so-called diagrams
I used to build my life
were inaccurate at best?
What if the life I built was unfitting of
someone like me?

I am a terrified dreamer,
a sad recluse who isolates or isolated, out loud
or openly and in plain sight to throw off my scent.
I try to confuse the hunters
so the dogs and the dregs
would not smell my fear
or know that I am fearfully
and actually weak.
and vulnerable

I have committed both regrettable
and unforgivable mistakes
and sins
and yet, I understand
that forgiveness comes in time,
and/or unforgiveness
can be timeless if we never learn
to forgive ourselves.
(or plan to)

I trusted the wrong one
and was disloyal to the right one
and so,
I write my apologies
to the universe
and regardless of the “return to sender,”
which comes back to me
I send my confessions anyway
because no matter what happens
mine is the only reflection
I have to see at the end of the day.

Me.
This is who I have to face.
More than anyone else.
Me.
This is who I have to see

I tell my secrets to the stars
and share my thoughts
with an invisible atmosphere
because here, in your presence,
this is the only place where anonymity
exists.

I don’t have time
to care about who knows what
or who cares
who likes me
or who else out there
is either good, bad, or indifferent.

I never told anyone else’s story
and I won’t begin now.
And if I did this
then I was wrong . . .

But I’m not here to expose anyone else
but me.
No.
That’s not right
but what is right is this:

The kind of person I want to be
is the kind of friend
who can keep a secret
even after the friendship ends
or the love goes
or chaos ensues.