She shields a lot of secrets
And those are not even hers
Each of them is left by someone
Who sees her as a secret's heir
She bequeaths each secret a name
And carefully puts it in a memory box
So when its owner comes again
She can return it, still locked.
Every secret represents
A person’s life with a twist
That is why she does not mind
Collecting secrets with such zest.
Some people often wonder
If she gets tired of listening
She just smiles and reasons out that
It instead leaves her anticipating.
The secrets, by the way,
Stretch from both extreme ends
It may be what lie they say
Or who are sleeping with whose beds.
Some secrets almost kill her
With a really good laugh
While others heedlessly remind her
Of her stinging, bad luck.
But, you know, there is a problem
Since secret-keeping becomes a habit
She often assume some secrets
As if they were really hers.
So, on the day a friend approaches
And asks for the saved pieces She discreetly opens the memory box
Only to doubt which are his?
She then resolves to stop pretending
That everything is still fine
And she compels herself to tell him:
"Next time, every secret will be mine."
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