“Are you hiding something from me?”
Yes. I am hiding a box of chocolates beneath my bed, a bouquet of orange tulips and lavendar up my sleeve, watermelon seeds saved from last summer in the brown paper bag wedged inside the middle dresser drawer of the guest bedroom, a pen I stole from my mother’s vanity when I was 8 buried between the pages of my copy of War and Peace, the pearl earrings I wore on our wedding day inside a crushed velvet bag that also carries spare change for laundry day, lunch time kisses and twisted bed-sheets beneath the sunlight that crushed the freckles on his back, tossed stilettos and a twisted garter stained with unapology and lip gloss inside my office closet, whitened scars from razored words honed with silence and failed redemption beneath my skin, and tiny fists and gasping lungs—nascent toes and endless rhetoric and all the poems I’ll ever write and all the verse I ever wrote and all the words I cannot say because of how you’ve bound my tired lips and thighs with pursed surrender.
In short, I’ve hidden from you all the things you’ve tried to take from me and couldn’t. The only things you left for me to hide.
“Nope. I’m not hiding anything.”