I really don't want to talk about it...
…as I read this letter, resurrecting the child I used to be. I can recapture
some expired memories while others are hidden in the back of my mind . Stashed
away, sealed with a lock to never look back again. I remember struggling to
spill my words onto a paper. Adjusting my words to drop like
seeping water into a carelessly ripped piece of
paper to show a false hint of affection to that special someone, reciting and
manipulating each syllable at its proper tune.
We were perfect triangles, each with identical sides, congruent angles, proving
every a postulate sane. Our segments corresponding at the same endpoint . But I finally
realized the problem: we each started at a different vertex, and we were nothing
but simple reflections. Shadows, each with its' individual life span, and much like a
clock, ticking . Wanting to spin into where we can disguise and hide our flaws
and turning into nothing less than solid perfection.
  Now, I don't want to talk about it, but digging even deeper I can still see me.
A young butterfly who just escaped its cocoon. Reaching womanhood,
I was ready to spread my wings to fly, but instead I was captured by deception,
because I had failed nature. I had not accomplished the natural growth of my wings.
I was always swallowed by unbearable
shyness. I was a weird child, always sucked into another world. Tucked in,
and compressed into a tiny cube, full of surprises.
I can still remember him, though. Half-shaved face; he was so unsatisfied.
His head was over the sky. He could almost be a new planet. He was a volcano: 
beware of his almighty eruption. Always at night, I laid in the cotton of my
sheets, and turn as I close the curtains  on my face . I am trapped
under waves of irresistible dreams. I float on the hands of a cloud smothered by
sweets of all kinds, and soon I feel wetness . Everything feels so wet and now I
am dragged back into reality. And I swear, daddy, I don't know why! I am sorry!
I won't do it again! His shouts suffocate my ears, drown me under his boiling rage and I hear
the thunder paralyze me. 
    I just don't want to talk about it…
…about all parts of me, versions of me, that I have kept away. My diary buried on
the gallows of my sub-consciousness. I think I'd rather stop reading, erase my
mind, and convince myself that I am over-powered by my imagination. A creative
and painful imagination.