the world
doesn't need to know everything,
and yet
you want to write
your story in the sky
in large black letters.
you want to shout
from the highest
building
all that you know,
blow the whistle
to stop this train
dead in its tracks,
but you can't.
what would
be the point.
what purpose is there
in this maudlin self pity.
this dark desire
to come clean.
the ego
is a monster that must
be tamed or otherwise
things could get ugly.
the fragile house of cards
will burn.
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