Kinds of Truth

Sometimes I spill out my life
to a stranger, and yet
can’t show my ugly self
to my sisters, keep secrets
from my mother, tell lies
to my father. Sometimes

I write out my soul
for the whole world to nibble
in cocktail-stick doses
and yet keep my grief
rammed into a cupboard
where it grows, and screams, and grows.

Is this truth? Is this the poet
or the poem speaking?

Sara Norja

If you have any comments on this poem, Sara Norja  would be pleased to hear from you.