bad Lifetime movie

Some days I'm troubled that no offspring will find a box of these little books tucked away somewhere. With their tails hanging out and yellowing paper.
Their faces a little anxious, like a bad Lifetime movie, opening them without reading.
Hesitating, what they'll find; as though this mystery woman, their mother, would finally be unmasked and her life gone before visible in the most revealing way imaginable.

And then, I think, that's just dramatic.

Maybe I just want to know somebody that intimately and have them know me.
Still the dramatic scene aforementioned is in small ways true.
Our insides are never completely outside.

I wish I were an artist and I could plaster them on walls and be momentarily relieved of their perspective.
I could view them from a far and find them
beautiful, meaningful and still not enough.