I Have to Write the Book You’ll Burn

I pull paper from the printer. Find half-empty unlined notebooks
in the upstairs bedroom. Leatherbound and thin. I’ve torn out pages.
A new notebook given to me as a gift
brings to mind an 18th century Grimoire. Not a computer.
Haven’t we had enough of that yet? I’m looking
for pens now. A pencil. A bit of lead to smear
across the pages. I need enough pages to write
a plausible start. I need to remember why I’m writing this.
I need to say something true. What’s true?
You know what’s true. We all do. It’s a matter
of admitting it. Braving it. I won’t hate you
if you admit to hating me. I will hate you
if you deny it. I don’t need you to love Lincoln.
You don’t know what I need until I tell you
what that is. I need to write this. I need this
to grow. To plant a seed in your mind.
Oh how annoyed my friends are
when strangers call me quiet. And more ticked off
when I am. They want to know what I know.
They want to make sure I stay in my Valley. Safe.
Away. Are you my friend? Can we be civil
at the very least? I often smile into the face of my enemies.
It is a bridge of possibility. Sometimes we laugh.
It’s hard to stab one you are laughing with. Think
I won’t put down what needs putting down right here
on this page? I’m smiling as I write this. You too,
smiling as you consider the pyre you’ll put me on.
The book of my life, gone to wisp and ash.