The unfinished one

She laughed this morning,
she doesn’t know why.
It’s been a while
since the last smile.
She’s used to pretending
everything’s fine:
‘The bruise? Funny story…’
‘I had too much wine.’
The truth is written
on black paper boats;
the fleet of emissaries
of the kingdom of hurts.
She shivers and hopes
that someone out there
knows how to read
the desperate fonts.
She hides her dreams
in a secret attic
where he has no access,
her room of panic.
A counsel she seeks
from her faithful shadows
the only numb witness
the only one who knows.

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