People do not love me, they admire me and pity me.
The admiration comes from external aspects of my being,
the only information I will willingly divulge.
They pity me for the secrets that lie within.
Information they have never sought, nor plan to,
that is only glimpsed at all in the rare slip-ups and flashes
and suggests to them that a comforting hand or murmured word will fix.
True love is going deeper,
risking fracturing my mind,
tearing out the story of my black and shadowed past
to understand my life and bring my buried thoughts to light,
and thus be capable of mending
the hole they made when they took my darkness out.