Beneath the coloured hair, the piercings.
The smoking. The underage drinking.
Who are you?
I want to see you;
when you look at the stars,
when you speak to the ceiling at barely a whisper, at a quarter past three in the morning.
When the lights are off
and there's nothing left between us
but six inches
and words you've always been too scared to say.
I want to see it:
the swirling, writhing, beating mass of colour.
The one made of fantasies and fears, the one that dreams of a world far away from this one.
I want to see your soul
and see if it's really much more
than the hair,
and the addictions.
Without that,
are you nothing?
Show me,
that if on the outside
you looked like really
not much more
than a child,
that your mind is still so very interesting.
Show me who you are
really.
