There is too much you don't know about me. I keep myself locked inside myself and the latches are old and stiff. Sometimes I hate myself, but mostly I love myself, despite my many imperfections. It's easier to think of others, especially when these thoughts appear to be generosity. But this is something you don't know. And I might tell you if you ever ask; I could peel off layers like skin until I reach my heart. But you never ask . . .
I can recognize you by your footsteps, by the scratch of your pen on paper, by the dark pixels that are your words on a computer screen before me. I often wonder how you recognize me. If you recognize me. Because too often I am alone and my mind presses against the cold glass of a mirror that hides the world from me and for some reason, if you think about me, I never know, and I feel alone. I search the surface of my loneliness, like skin stretched across bone, but I fear the pain I imagine will blossom forth if I probe more deeply.
You were right when you said that repression is not selective. There's a cave in me somewhere that holds everything I don't let out. It aches. I don't know how to let these things spill over. It's so hard to loosen my bonds. I tied the knots a lifetime ago, it seems, and have long since forgotten the simple release in their complex forms.
I have infinite patience for others, who distract me from myself. I wonder if there is someone like me who uses me in the same way. I'd like that. I'd like to know that there is someone thinking of me sometimes.
I know I'm not alone, but that is what I feel. You never ask a question first, but follow my lead as if the part is hard to play. Sometimes I just want consideration. Not me with respect to you. Just me, period.
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© 1999 Rosa Carson