Floorboard Whispers

I found you out.

Peeled up the floorboards

And peered into the dark.

.

Books, piles of them.

Millions of them

Crowding up the walls.

.

But they weren't written

In your hand

Or even with your words.

.

It was a delicate scrawl,

Feminine and pretty like the voice

I could just barely hear.

.

A good author

Always has a strong voice,

Isn't that right?

.

She sounded pretty.

Airy, light, similar to the light

Streaming through forest trees.

.

But as the confessions drew on

She sounded uglier,

Like words I'd never speak.

.

How long had she slept

Under the floor of our house,

Whispering in her untroubled sleep?

.

Decades,

I can feel it in my bones,

The white knuckles I throw down.

.

Not my own.

Those ache with the betrayal

Of those whispers.

.