Hiding

I cut my hair short,
tried to find myself, thought
maybe it'd be
easier without all those thick
layers falling in
front of my eyes.
Thought maybe if you can
see my face, my eyes, you'll
understand better.
Except understanding requires a
will very few people
have and allowing those
few into my now
uncovered face requires a
confidence I don't have,
even though I don't
hide quite as
well as I used to.

I hid, in the
depths of myself, hid this
tightening in my
chest, like something doesn't
quite belong right where it
should. So I can put
up with my constant teary-
eyed, lumpy throat, my reddening
cheeks and the need to
run into anyone's arms who
doesn't want me there because maybe I'd have
run for yours. I put

up with the smoking, put up with the
stubborn, addictive personality, put
up with the
hurt and put
up with the lies. And though I've
survived to tell, your
mind, your arms are
nothing but a pile of
dust in some
jar now, in storage with others just
waiting to be spread apart so
maybe I can take one last
step in your footprints before
turning my back on everything it turned
out you were.

And when I turn my back, when I
kneel down on the
soft, cool earth, I will
turn pale-green and shatter because I'll be
holding my own hand behind my
own back and will have to catch
myself when I fall into the
water because you'll have begun
sinking to the bottom and no one
else will be able to wipe your
remnants from my hands. These

new, unrecognizable hands. So
unrecognizable that when I
look in the
mirror, I think I'm someone
else and can
only think that you never
knew me like this, never
knew me when I
wasn't hiding the way I
always was with you around.