And you, and nothing but you, miles and piles of you.
When I'm walking, when I'm thinking, when I'm talking, when people are talking, I get all chokey-scared. I hate this feeling. Nothing is worse than this feeling. It's the standing-up-on-stage with laryngitis and no memory of ever learning your lines feeling. It's the head-pounding, faint feeling after you slam your thumb in a locker. It's the falling, falling feeling you get when you're standing on a bridge, far too high up to be safe, with monkeys picking at your cuticles.
That place is giving me nightmares. The happiness and freedom and life that seems to emanate, like a stench, from its ugly, boring, plain buildings. That I am too late for. I don't know if I'm enough. How do I know that I'm enough if nobody tells me? How do I know that I'm enough when nobody looks me in the eye?
I'm not a trap. I'm not unforgiving. I'm not insensitive. I try not to be selfish.
I'm just cold, and willing to put my heart on my sleeve and leave it dangling for anyone to rip off.
I shouldn't say anything else.
Not a fortune-teller. I just believe in faith. And you. And me.
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