When they ask
I never know what to say when people ask me about myself. i have never been good at letting someone know me before i have the chance to worry about them knowing me. maybe that is a bad thing. maybe i know that i’m more than they could handle. maybe i know that not many people can appreciate somebody whose peace comes with a sober aftertaste. maybe i don’t know the simple way to tell them that i’m the person who dreams during the day and gets one or two layers thinner at night. sometimes three. have you ever met a person who walks slower next to the man in the wheelchair on the sidewalk because she feels sick to her stomach that she might make him sad? i haven’t—i just know that i am more than what others want to expect of me. that they might look at my heavy face and try to read it like hieroglyphics. and i know that they probably wouldn’t understand.