'Tell me
about yourself', he said,
as though I could possibly explain
who and what and when
and how I am
in any terms that HE would understand.
Should I tell him I'm an artist,
a writer, a painter, a poet
full of images pulled
from out the darkest recesses
of my mind
of his mind.
Shall I explain to him
my troubled past
those sweet invisible scars
which trace the lines of my veins
deep beneath the surface
where only I can see them
in the night
behind my eyes
where the days that have past before
and will come again
fly by in hideous circles
plaguing me with their evil intentions.
The days and the daze,
ever haunting me with the truth
of what I was
of what I am
of what I've done
to myself
and to so many others.
How can I tell him,
how can I explain the pills
and the songs
and the nights with no sleep
but plenty of rest
lying in my lover's arms
talking of existence
and the chance to mean something,
anything,
to someone.
He will never know
my desperation,
desperation to be loved
and needed
and seen as more than just
the stereotypical
artistic chick with a dorky side
full of angst and secret passions,
for I am so much more,
more than just myself
or him, or you, even.
I am a conglomeration,
a mixture of all
those who have come before
and will come after,
a puzzle built up
of a myriad small parts,
each day, each choice,
each failure or success,
and he will never know,
HE will never know,
he will never KNOW.
'Tell me about yourself.'
'I'm no one special.'