The Story Behind

(My Brush with Infamy 2)

In the summer fever of belief,
I put my hands in the air and
looked into the mirror that
now reflected myself in a veil.
I lifted the shroud to show
that scored on my flesh
were words left unspoken.
My electronic confessional
seemed private and safe
as I filled the diary everyday
with the story behind my story
that left me with those scars.

No one will probably see any
of these confessions, anyway.

After winter ice had come,
a stranger stared intently
at the beads around my throat,
while I stared intently
at the shelves behind him.
A thought scraped through my head
of the memory of my confession.
Another scrape was the artwork
of obscured, orange dots,
recently unveiled, for all to see.
The last scrape was the thought
of my very distinctive name
littered around cyberspace
and lying limp within old pages
of the same confessional diary.

Would anyone be interested,
so deeply, to go seeking me?

After the lapse of fourteen days,
perhaps, if my guess was right,
he regretted the trip he made
when words of a booklet refuted
all of the story behind my story.
And besides, I'll never know
if this man came to spy
the girl that wrote that odd,
and deeply personal story.