The words on the page were convincing enough.

They listed my fears, my faults, and strangely, my loves.

Strange because even I was unaware

Of the ones I cared for so deeply and heart-bare.

No memory of writing.

No intention of keeping.

I’ll take first steps to righting

This wrong.

But what happened on rain drenched nights,

For me to confess things not even in my own light?

Too much not sleep.

Too little breathing and eating and living?