Once, maybe twice, I have looked into a man, only to see myself in him. Sometimes, it is the better parts of me, reflected back in vibrant colors. Sometimes, it is everything that I take great care to mask, to understand, to unsuccessfully change. But no matter what I recognize, I find myself terror-stricken.
I am struggling to remain honest, as much as I hope that it is possible to walk past any man who would offer me company. There is nothing I am willing to talk about. I am closed to all, but my own emotions. My eye must be sharply fixed on the designs created by hermetical revelations. I am of no use to anyone that is seeking out a partnership with me.
Too often, I have loved a person at their worst, as if somehow the gratitude they should feel for this, would create a lasting bond. As if the defective should stick to their own kind.