I've touched the bottom of that one warm man-made lake in Michigan. It never ends. There's gloop, leaves and all that, feet and feet (a mile?) deep. It composts and compounds and you don't feel it unless you go diving, even then, it's a mushpit more than a collection of debris.
Where do the things we've never told anyone go?
Volcanos erupt with all the disease they've pent up. Lava flows, destructs. But sometimes not in a lifetime, or in human existence. But sometimes in your granddaughter's.
Where do the things we've never told anyone go?
The stains on the Wendy's table. Frosties spilled over. Right in front of everyone. You did it in purpose. You spilled it in a grand gesture. TAKE THAT, DAVE THOMAS.
Where do the things we've never told anyone go?
The puff of smoke from the fireworks, everyone is already walking away.
The smallest rose in the bouquet, thorny and pink on it's own, invisible with it's brothers.
The manuscript she begged him to send, sitting in the starred file.
What are the things we've never told anyone? No one asked. We forgot.
