Do not ask me to tell you the truth or I will tell you how I have become a confessional for the secrets men keep.
Their truths come in waves washing over me as I stroke their hair and shush their cries.
I mend their hearts and return them back to you good as new.
I am black and white and where the colors meet are contrasts that stipple until they overlap and you cannot tell day versus night; there is only now.
The now is heavy with the words I do not speak because their secrets are so loud.
The now is like Jack Frost inching up my spine while their truths heat my ears, my cheeks.
I bite my lips, my tongue to keep their secrets inside of me.
I do not ask for their confessions... their secrets, half lies, brazen truths.
But they come to me, weary with words and set them free where I do not interject or give my two cents.
I allow them to free their inner demons and wipe their slates clean.
The hardest part is not knowing whether they are leaving their problems for me to unpack or if they are letting them slip out the door as they leave.
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