Not one secret is actually revealed in this poem. The speaker talks about shouting, screaming and scattering them across the sky, but the reader never learns what they are. That silence is the poem's real subject. It is less about the secrets themselves than about the gap between wanting to be heard and expecting not to be. By the end, the speaker has imagined being ignored and then quietly taken the blame for it.
The form suits this uncertainty. The poem is free verse with no rhyme and no end punctuation, and the lines begin in lowercase, as if the thoughts were spilling out before anyone could tidy them. Some lines are short and hesitant ("but maybe I should share them"). Others sprawl, like "you will hear and I know that you will be able to feel the pain that I feel," which runs on without a pause and sounds like a speaker talking herself into courage. Even the small slips, such as "wont" without its apostrophe, add to the sense of something written fast and unpolished. That impression may be deliberate or accidental, but it makes the poem feel raw.
The imagery follows a falling path. The speaker starts on the "rooftops," a high, public place, then moves to "the sky" and the "paper planes," and ends with the secrets lying "on the ground." The paper planes are the poem's most telling image. They are childlike and light, and they suggest a hope that something painful might fly. They are also fragile, and planes always come down. Because they are paper, the secrets are written, which lets the speaker confess without a face-to-face conversation. The poem sets this against the later line "you wont look into my eyes," which shows what the speaker is afraid of. Being read is bearable. Being seen is harder.
The poem also leans on repetition and reversal. Early on, the speaker is sure of an audience: "I know you will see them." "I know that you will be able to feel the pain." Then comes the hinge word "but," and the same confident phrasing turns around: "but I know you wont believe me." The speaker is equally certain of two opposite outcomes, which shows how unsteady that confidence is. The verbs of perception pile up (see, hear, feel, read, look, listen), as though the speaker is checking every way someone could possibly understand them. The closing run of "you don't see… you don't listen and you don't know" shuts each of those doors in turn. The word "pain" is repeated but never explained, so the reader is put in the position of the "you" who doesn't know.
The final line changes the poem's direction: "but to be honest, I think that's my fault." The rhetoric of rooftops and screaming gives way to a flat, almost conversational admission. The certainty of "I know" is replaced by the softer "I think." "To be honest" is also an odd phrase here, because the speaker has just spent the whole poem promising to be honest. The line suggests that blaming oneself may be the truest secret of all, or at least the one that is hardest to say loudly. It is not clear what the fault is. It might be keeping quiet for so long, or expecting people to understand without being told. The poem leaves that open.
The title adds another layer, though what it refers to is an inference. "I Threw the Supermarket Flowers From the Windowsill" is in the past tense, while the poem itself is about what the speaker might do. Cheap, store-bought flowers are a stand-in for affection, and throwing them out suggests anger or a need to get rid of something. A windowsill is also a threshold between inside and outside, private and public, much like the speaker's rooftops. The act in the title seems to be a small rehearsal for the larger one the poem imagines.
What makes the poem worth reading is how truthfully it describes a common feeling. Many people want to be understood and expect to be dismissed, and the poem does not resolve that. It stays in the moment before speaking, when the secrets are still unsaid, and shows how silence can come from fear, from doubt, and from a quiet habit of blaming oneself.