Here’s my honesty, then: I am afraid of being known. I swallow my tongue when I smile, and the right words never come to me when people cry. I’m sure someday I will suffocate on my regrets. I killed someone once, though they refuse to stay dead, and blood pours from my eyes when I beat them back in their grave. I think I used to know them, but I cannot remember their name. I am afraid of being seen, perhaps not in the way you would think—would you stay, if I showed you where I buried them? It is not your truth, but the only truth I know: that some days I feel barely human.
