The Real Story

Shame and confusion. One might think six hundred days away makes the hurt less. I count them in fives on the walls between me and my accidental love. I write him letters while his back is turned and his arms are crossed. I've tried to get the real story but the silent treatment is all I've gotten. Wondering which offense is the one that turned everyone off. I assume it wasn't the storyteller. He's innocent, right? Or maybe everyone believes in saving the drama for one's momma. I bet you wouldn't give him access to your sister. He wouldn't want it. Then everyone would know. Sometimes I'm happy that I was released. Other times acclimating to the real world can be too much. I'm curious by nature and silence doesn't quell a thing. Just keeps it all spinning. Somebody get me something that can keep this memory down. Concrete in buckets holding fast to my psyche. Down deep in the waters of my being.