Do you dare ask me what I feel?
Are you prepared?
Do you wish to carry burdens, my burdens?
You want answer then? An honest one?
Do you know what type of suns
lie behind my eyes?
Do you know how many worlds I can comprise in the time it takes for you to ask me my story?
You want honesty then?
You do realize that this moment does not...is not... cannot be enough?
You have asked
the impossible of me in this room.
Were I to answer you now I would resign myself to some impending doom
as I begin to recount my story.
I would watch your face to see interest fall away as understanding ripped it off.
I would try to find a way to make it shorter,
a skill we storytellers reserve
for moments like this when
we see the eyes dull and ears strain.
If I continue you will think me vain, if I stop you will think me dishonest.
It is why I never start.
Experience has a way of making fevered lips smart enough to cool down.
People are only listening
for the answers they expect,
and if you are one of those people,
I have no time to prove you wrong,
or make you see me.
Consider it an insult that I do not
attempt to surprise you with my stories.
For they are only for ears
that ask in ways I can understand
and in places that we both agreed to be.
So if you dare ask me how I feel,
I am not okay, but I will be.
SK
