Undergrowth,

 where the secrets are hidden.

Down in the moist soil

next to where the doodlebugs

cluster together,

rolled up in their little balls,

 luxuriating in the dark and the damp.

Secrets like the dark and

 the damp as well,

where they can tunnel deep

and feel safe.

Where they can burrow

to spots where earthworms

slide past and slugs nestle.

Secrets like knowing

they are hidden in places

where no one will think to look.

Where they can grow

in magnitude in the dark.

Where they can steal away

at night and haunt the human

who furtively buried them.

Where they can taunt

the bury-er with details

of potential discovery.

That inevitable moment when

the dastardly deed or thought or

misspoken word or lie will be

uncovered and the truth

skitters out like

a brown recluse spider.

 Its poison eating a hole

straight through that buried secret,

revealing human frailty, the

source of all the pain. The

fear that others will now see

the truth and flaws and

utter lack of worth

that the undergrowth has

done its best to conceal.