A pot of glue, glued shut
on itself, its insides
never again to spill
across the tiled floor, stick
to socked feet, cling
to the cotton lint, cling
to the memories of the touch.
Never again will its secrets
stain the carpet, stick
to children's fingers, dribble
through the pages, hold
the pages together, hold
the pages to the glue itself.
Never again will its secrets,
stuffed inside by sticky lies,
not tell him how she really felt.
Never again will her secrets
fall upon unwitting ears, sing
from the mountain tops, sigh
behind the garden gate, loom
over secret keepers, gasp
for air to bring them life, hold
her breath to silence.
Never again will her secrets
glue her to her seat, silence
her when she wants to speak, blind
her eyes to his open arms, cover
her ears to softly spoken words, keep
that day a day away.
Never again will her Secrets
spill from her lips, tell
her friends how badly
she is eagerly waiting
for his love, but settle
for less than him, just because
her secrets tell her lies
that always glue her feelings in.