Every one you’ve ever told. 

You write it out, fold it up, and put it in the drawer. 

Pretty soon it’s peeking out. 

By the time you die, it’ll be overflowing. 

Papers, papers, papers. 

When you’re younger, you tell small ones mixed in with some big ones. 

But Momma doesn’t want you to so you don’t too much. 

You need her. 

As you grow up, you don’t need her. 

There’s no reason to stop. 

Keep adding papers. 

It’s okay. 

              Where’s the shoulder to cry on?

It’s normal. 

              What if I don’t want to?

It’s accepted.

              What if I can’t accept myself?

You move out and have gained your independence, but are never free. 

Carry the drawer behind you. 

Clank, clank, clank. 

It comes down the stairs with you. 

It comes up the stairs with you. 

It’s chained to your ankle. 

Never goes away, keeps getting heavier, every day is harder. 

Papers, papers, papers. 

Flood your room.

              Your life. 

Flood your house. 

              Your city. 

Flood your community. 

              Your world. 


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