By: Kimberly Potter Kendrick

A dusty attic is my mind
Filled with cobwebs, boxes, and trunk after trunk after trunk
Boxes of memories
Time capsules of hope filled days

There hangs the wedding dress worn at 21 years of age
Boxes of pictures never placed in albums
Capturing children’s births, 10 years of birthdays and holidays
Over in the corner stands grandmother’s chiffarobe

In the attic, ghosts possess minds
Voices, shaking chains, visions haunt
Still I am drawn

A bloodcurdling nook, but intrigue abounds
The boxes and trunks aligned in precise rows
Under the shattered window, secrets lie locked away another day

Belonging to me, my secrets hidden
Invisible they may be
I realize climbing the rickety steps that a mistake I brew
No one alone should venture into the attic

Many an acquaintance have pressed
I retort, “Under lock and key, my secrets secluded.”
Mystical, mysterious, imperceivable, indiscernible
They are mine

Unwilling to divulge, more likely to receive lies of omission
Trust nonexistent, traumatized
The truth as it is, alarms even me
How could I possibly give them a peek?

To the chiffarobe I dance
A new costume
A new mask
Who shall I be? Whomever you would like me to be

Standing too close with cupped ear
Invasion, I sense
Evade, I will
The secrets ensconced
To me they belong

Distrust I must
Safeguard those parts of me
In disbelief all would be if ever the latch unshackled
Confession of enigma never
Mute, in perpetuity

Hastily across the creaking boards
I dart
Scrutinize, once I embarked
Discerning each layer
Visualizing the puzzle

My secrets
Vigilant, I must be
My secrets
The unseen conscious
My secrets
Permeate my soul
My secrets
Mine to behold