So for the sake of argument
I will now tell you who I am
And it’s a walk to a Hall of Mirrors paradox
When I become your Labyrinth-wild Pandora’s box
Stark rapid-eye-movement secrets
And mysteries left open for future reference
Just in case we’ll end up close to an apocalypse
We know all and nothing, bird’s eye view flirty glimpse
You won’t be my visitor but you’ll be my guest
I’ll show you my worst but I’ll give you my best
The price of passion and the curse of lovers
Rest assured, it’s you and me and no one else
Our battles will be see-saws, our love like carousels
As finite life is vengeance to eternal death,
Twin souls knot in both wombs and graves.
The most sacred of secrets are those that cannot be told not because they’re supposed to be hidden, but because they can only be felt, exchanged through a shared experienced, dreamt of when we are deep in our sleep, recalled alone in a movie in our minds.
These secrets are the ones shared by lovers, with whom we intimately share our bodies with. I mean, you can use all the similes and metaphors and all there is to confess to your BFF how it went down but that’s just how far it goes; in the end, you’re the only one who knows everything.
If this sort of secret were a heinous crime tried in court, it’s not being the star witness to it; it’s not even enough being the true motivation of the perpetrator; it is being the trauma of the victim. Everyone else is simply one who has read the headline on the newspaper.