My secret is sorrowful, yes,
But it’s a certain kind sorrow
It’s not the kind that throws you into fits of despair
Or the kind that you retell throughout the ages
You know, the ones that Shakespeare wrote about.
There is no fancy language, no linguistic style to best capture it
It is deadly only in its subtlety.
It’s so cunning, so good at disguising itself
That sometimes I don’t think it’s really there.
But on the days I’m at my worst
When my strength is surpassed by so much weakness
The weakness that I try to slip behind my sarcasm
That’s when I know it’s there.
You may then ask, why do you let it linger?
You’re a 21st century woman, aren’t you?
You’ve become stronger than your secrets, no?
But, perhaps, I want it to loiter
Right there between sadness and content.
It’s come to almost define me
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