There are things about me that only my Remington knows.
The patterns of chaos.
The frantic key strokes of unending errors.
Reflections without deletion.
Black blood pounded into parchment
with the ire of spite.
Seeking destruction
of them, of me, of all.
There are things about me that only my Remington knows.
Reams, discarded, Dreams, ignited.
The clattering against every wooden wall,
Pedantic fingers seeking to purge
The words my lips could never bear.
I've written life. I've written death.
And to the same effect.
Silence.
There are things about me that only my Remington knows.
The shame that I have shouldered,
The pain I have sequestered.
The joy I have denied
As an act of penance.
Some call them secrets.
Perhaps.
But not everything is for you.
This is not for you.
I am not for you.