Sworn to secrecy, I may never have the permission to tell you where I will be tomorrow, however violently it burns a hole inside. As each hour counts down, I am filled with shame and desire to run like the wind. I recap all, which I expect. Unforgivingly, I protect the truth, the 'dirty little secret'. Tomorrow morning, my past, my present, my future will be splattered before me, after years of denial and anxiety. I cannot control, protest or disagree, yet I manipulate the possibilities.
Tomorrow, I will need a shoulder, but I cannot share my tears.
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