Polar

You are my secret.

It is May. The world is vibrant, and hot, and sticky, and I am both happy and sad. My heart is both broken and hopeful, melted but curdling, by the pulsing throb of the summer heat.

You are my secret.

Everyone who knows, knows only half–in the same way we only see half the moon, when we see the moon at all.

You are my secret.

Hello, hello. I’ve found a light in the attic. I’ve found a light in the attic, and it dangles from the ceiling. Pull the switch and the beams beneath the roof may give way. Too scared to pull the switch. Maybe the light won’t matter so much.

Hello, hello.

You are my secret.

My heart’s bubbled over. I am terrified.

You are my secret.

I am Morissey of The Smiths. “Please, please, please, let me get what I want this time,” I’ll sing. I’ll be adored by angsty teens all over, like I’m the patron saint of the broken-hearted.

You are my secret.

This summer is bittersweet, like that third or fourth shot of tequila that you knew you shouldn’t have taken but “God, the burn is just so good.”

You are my secret.

I wonder if Morissey ever got what he wanted.

You are my secret.

I wonder if you’ve got a secret. I’m sure you do. But it’s nothing like my secret, no.

You are my secret, and only in this way can I keep you, and only in this way I can say you’re mine.

If you remain my secret.

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