I wrote this poem years ago. I found it in myO archives. I still like it.
My experiences are my own,
you may not have them.
Every person, everything:
They belong to me.
Why must you ask?
Press for things that are not yours?
It is not important for you.
"It is important for us," you say?
Why must you know?
Know thngs I won't even talk about in the dark...
by myself...
What would you like to know?
About my scars, about my tears,
about the people?
How about every gram that I put up my nose?
You flinched.
That is enough to tell me you can not handle my truths.
You cannot handle my lives.
I have had many, you know.
Lives.
You are simply part of one.
The one I live now.
The one that embraces you,
in all you faults,
in all your secrets.
Do you really want to know?
Ask again...
