Being perceived, being seen

Your heart is made of ice, he used to say.

Cold.

Hard.

Impenetrable.

I’ve been told I have a strong poker face, I told him. I agree; I can never tell what is going on with you, he replied.

Expressionless.

Stoic.

Feelingless.

They were wrong. They didn’t try, or look, or actually see me.

A thing about pedestals is they are easy to fall off.

A thing about fantasies is they aren’t real.

You’re solid, he said surprised. It felt good to hear that. I felt fractured, splintered, hollow, beyond recognition. But he saw the truth of me. The core of me.

People see what they want to see.

People can only see what we show them.

I showed him. Again and again. And we kept coming back. We keep coming back.

Sometimes we meet people who don’t balk when who we are slips through the cracks of our armor.

Sometimes people have X-ray vision and can see through our lead suits.

Sometimes we are so exhausted from maintaining the walls, holding up the mask, we simply stop because we honestly don’t give a fuck anymore.

I sure know…