a poem: my own room 19

My room nineteen is a space in my head. I go there. Or it is my writing practice, which I will not show to anyone. I give only bits and pieces and the dark spirit of the thing is kept hidden, a retreat from the world.
I would like people to

understand me but I will never show them my interior. We dreamers and dark souls appear as angels but

only our demeanor is. Beneath the kindness lies a demon.

I read that story and was afraid.
Afraid I saw myself
Afraid I saw my future
Afraid I saw my children motherless
Afraid I saw my husband widowed
Afraid is all I’ve ever been
But comforted when someone writes a story about you across time and space.

1.0 You are (not) alone.



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