No. Never did she allow view.
Her hidden private scribbles
contained her shame.
Mirror of darkness she wrote,
reflection of her dismal soul
uncontrolled, she could not deny
repeating, repeating themselves
in harsh judgment, resentment,
unsure if she was processing hate
or if her writing was dialogue
with wickedness harbored
in her pen.
Obsessively she wrote her pain,
profound imperfections personified
within her, disclosed on pages
smeared with bloody grieving tears
recounting sorrowful regrets for things
done, or that will never be.
Finally, pen emptied of dark ink
she read each secret page,
before she embraced it,
released it to the wind and sun.
to be gently bleached.
Now, blank pages thirst
as she writes
(Submitted to: Dverse Poets