Tell me a secret.

I’ll tell you mine.

Are you thinking about what scares you?  Are you remembering something you’ve never had the courage to say?  Are you opening your closet and freezing at the sight of the skeletons?

Close it.

There are secrets no one thinks of when they’re told to turn out the pockets of their lives.  There are some things they never tell anyone; not because they want to keep it from others, but because they don’t realize it’s hidden.

Tell me those secrets.

Tell me about the items you’ve held onto, perhaps scattered around your room.  Maybe you’re not the kind of person who holds onto stuff, not physically, but some things stay in your memory nonetheless.

There is a softball sitting on my desk that my brother and I found in a field a long, long, time ago.  We fought over whose it was until I hid it in my sock drawer and left it there for years.  It’s old and cracked and there’s black duct tape over a spot where it had ripped, but I still like the way it feels in my hands even though they’re much bigger now.

I have an old library card from when I lived in another state, another time.  It hasn’t been useful for nearly a decade, but it still bears the faded marks of one of my first ever signatures, written in terrible handwriting because my hand was still a stranger to holding a pen.

There is an old calendar in my drawer from 1985 that used to belong to my grandfather, and it is waiting for a year when the days of the week once again match up with the dates of the month so that I can hang it on a wall one more time.

Tell me your secrets.

I’ll tell you mine.

I eat my pizza from crust to tip.  Most of my dreams are out of focus or not completely there because if I pay too much attention I wake myself up.  I love the smell of rose because it reminds me of eating Turkish Delight.  When I go up or down stairs I try to finish on my right foot.  I snort when I laugh because I loved the sound of it when I was younger and learned how to make myself do it.  When I read I usually have to cover up the next lines because my eyes like to skip down and catch spoilers before I can get to them.  I like to hit multiples of five when I adjust the volume.

I still think about the haircuts I’ve given that didn’t turn out.

I love boxes disguised as old books.

I miss the feeling of bare feet on grass.

Tell me your secrets.

I’ll tell you mine.


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