Trespassing

The journal was on the table,

left open, and I saw the page,

saw the handwriting,

saw the sentence

that wasn't meant for my eyes.

I could have closed it.

I could have walked away.

Instead I read

the next sentence,

the next thought,

the next thing

they hadn't meant to tell me.

Days later, they asked

if I'd seen something,

if I'd read it,

and I lied

because the truth

was worse than the lie,

because knowing

that I'd violated them

was worse

than them thinking

I hadn't.

But now every time

I see them,

I'm aware

that I've been inside their head,

that I've stolen a thought,

that I've trespassed

on something private,

and the lie sits

between us

like a third person,

like a thing

that's always there

in the room.

I didn't mean to read it.

That's not true.

I meant to.

I just didn't mean

to get caught

in the lie.

Now when they talk to me,

I'm listening

not to what they're saying

but to what they might be

thinking about me,

about the violation,

about whether they know

how much I know,

about whether the lie

was worth it,

about whether

I can ever touch anything

of theirs again

without feeling

like a thief.