MG

I feel like a deceiver when I
dress myself in carefully arranged clothing to
hide my gauntness, and paint my face with lying
strokes to hide the ravages of illness. I wonder who I am
fooling when I try to laugh and it
comes out sounding harsh and brittle. I
think you can hear death in my voice.


SECRETS

I have a secret that rises up
in my throat at times, and clutches me,
threatening to strangle me. It whispers to me
when I am trying to concentrate on work,
haunts me when I am having an otherwise happy time, and
pops up at the most unexpected moments.
It holds me in its dark clenched grip and
won't go away, even when I am making love with you.
It says it will never release me, even if I say it aloud.
Even as I am writing this, it is laughing at me
In most sinister gales.

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