The Death of Secrecy

This post is too premature. In an ideal world, its date of maturity is close to never.

In a bid to be opaque, I’ve gotten pretty damned close to having a face full of eczema. I’m more vain than proud, so I much rather pour out my feelings than invest in steroid creams.

He does and does and does some more. Anything to make her smile. Anything for a sense of approval from her. He doesn’t want to rock the boat, for fear she may fall overboard. He can’t lose her, she has seen so much of him. No one has seen him the way she has.

Yet, he knows nothing about her. Her past, her future…nothing. To her, he is not worthy of such knowledge. He lulls himself by thinking that only a privileged few are enlightened to see the nooks and crannies of her soul. Unfortunately, most of the time, it feels like the whole world is privileged except him.

It gnaws at him when he sees her with others, without a care in the world. A needle punctures his heart everytime she sees others but never him.

He summons up the courage to make himself known, fights to open her eyes so she can see him. But all she ever does is dismiss him, shoo him away like the nuisance she perceives him to be.

He convinces himself that it’s the last time she steps on his pride, that enough is enough and he will move on. That conviction never lasts long. He loathes himself for clutching on to a foot that kicks his face.

Throughout all the pain and torture, the tears and the sadness, the longing and the envy of others, his one question is constant,

“Why do I mean so little to you?”