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May 17, 2002
I am a patient, but selfish girl. To write it would be to share you with strangers. So I don’t, I skirt around the truth, hint at what is there but will not be revealed. A public strip tease of my feelings. Like the onion, if I was, outside still the dry, crackly layer like paper. But look at me, look hard, like paper too is my skin, my eyes. Can you not read your own handwriting, where you scribbled, doodled, composed, recorded all over me? It’s why I don’t strip it away, don’t reveal, I’m waiting to be read.