Candid in writing
Coy in person.
All you know of me is what I tell you
All you see of me is what I show you.
Relaxed
Or anxious.
All you have is what I give you,
The parts of me I share with you, behind the scenes.
Across the hall,
Or through the window.
When I break, I give you only the most beautiful piece.
Chipped off, yet meaningful.
Artistic even, as if breaking is a form of expression.
I never let you see the hole that piece left.
When I run and hide, I only let you see me hiding.
Elusive, like a dream gone too soon.
When I mourn, you only see the part of me that needs to cry into your shoulder.
Not the part that needs to scream out.
Parts of me are a stranger to you.
Even when I’m messy and clumsy with my secrets.
You still don’t know the flame of my anger,
Even when it burns you.
You don’t know my joy- not really.
The part of me that breathes in relief, rather than gifting a smile of gratitude.
Or a laugh of validation.
You’ve never met her.
You’ve known me for years,
But you’ve never even met me.