by Cynthia Eddy

A secret is a slippery thing
It slides in and out of the real
Light diminished
Dark takes over.

The words are spit out or
Slipped into the waiting ear
They will hurt you
Will tie your tongue.

Nothing good will come of it
The secret will tire
And lose the awful sweetness
That first tickle of knowing.

Or the secret is carried
Deep in a black heart
It will worm its way out
And eat the innocent.

Keep it safe or
Spill your guts
Save the secret
And it will kill you.

Cynthia Eddy lives and writes in Atlantic, on the eastern shore of Virginia, where the quiet village sustains her sense of belonging.  She holds a BA in Art History and has been published in Third Wednesday, Eunoia Review, Epiphany Magazine, Zombie Poetry and in Emerge Literary Journal. “Poetry creates a chord between reader and poet,” Eddy says. “That chord remains long after the reading. Every poem reaches into the reader and brings forth an understanding, a moment of ‘I’ve been there.'”

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