My secret is worthy. To be guarded like the keep of one-hundred dragons. It lies inside a rotted chest, crueal and wicked and warped though I mean to hide it well beneath its translucent wood. What must be kept I cannot keep. Higher powers scourge my core with burning fingers thrusting my secret onto the pedestal. The chest begins to splinter on wettest days. Rotted shards course down my frail form and settle in clumps, forming the features I cant bear to see in a reflection of myself. The world cannot know.... Why call it a secret? When most are aware through the planes of pain i`ve shown them through. I push them away with fisted hands and they push back. Always as loving and loyal as the ocean`s tide. I look past them, but there they stand. Ears and eyes and hearts pleading to help. Bleeding, but still....there. Who can I tell? The secret is me; its what I`ve assumed to be created for. For the purpose of hating the person I am. Shredding the outer shell of my inner being and out again. Days spent in solitude breed disgust and shame for the very life I am only gifted with once. Things changed when I began to see life`s preciousness. Imagine the days I`ve wasted writhing in pain and fear and uncertainty. A wasted life, a wasted soul. But there is time to make life beautiful.  a whole life ahead of me not just to survive, but to live. 


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