[poker face]
Some people think I'm unreadable, but I know better. A gambler is supposed to see all and reveal nothing; I've had the best poker face all my life. They look at me with bright, or lonely, or angry eyes and even when I squeeze mine closed I know exactly what they're thinking. They tell me I'm unreadable, but I know they see it when I'm upset.
Everyone deals with uncertainty differently; some with tears, some with mockery, and others with a dull frustrated rage. I know they watch me sleep at night, my smile hollow and unwavering. He asked me once, why I speak in soft and gentle tones to those I hate the most, and I could only sigh and chuckle softly. I did not know the answer.
He asked me once, why I smiled so, even when I cried for Her. He ruffled my hair when he asked, affectionate. I said, "Tears? But that was only rain." He looked at me with knowing eyes has never asked, staring me down with unrelenting hatred -- why does he have what I do not?
I smile at his scowl and offer a fresh-cooked meal, which he always accepts with an uninterested grunt. He knows what I am inside. I realized recently, that the more I run from him the more he sees -- straight through to the heart of me. I look at him and see the same -- my falsity is his sincerity, and his belongs to me. Only he can see it, lurking inside. The bitterness with which he speaks is a bitterness I feel, and cling to with all my might. He knows I can see his sweetness; shy and smiling from behind his eyes.
I was content with my mask until I saw him. Now, however, I find that the thing I want most is a part of him that shines most when I am in the misty darkness of the rain. "You'd rather die than betray me."
"You're correct," I said, "I have no choice, don't you think?"
I smiled for him, then, feeling an extra pair of eyes upon us, and reached with trembling fingers for his strength. One of our voyeurs gasped as he slapped my hand away, but held me close against his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin. I knew, then, that I had been wrong all along. How fragile he can be, reduced to tears by the rain.
"Don't worry," I said against his ear, "it will clear, eventually." Staring at me with angry eyes, he told me that I had won. He says I'm unreadable, but I know he knows I love him.
Some people think I'm unreadable, but I know better. A gambler is supposed to see all and reveal nothing; I've had the best poker face all my life. They look at me with bright, or lonely, or angry eyes and even when I squeeze mine closed I know exactly what they're thinking. They tell me I'm unreadable, but I know they see it when I'm upset.
Everyone deals with uncertainty differently; some with tears, some with mockery, and others with a dull frustrated rage. I know they watch me sleep at night, my smile hollow and unwavering. He asked me once, why I speak in soft and gentle tones to those I hate the most, and I could only sigh and chuckle softly. I did not know the answer.
He asked me once, why I smiled so, even when I cried for Her. He ruffled my hair when he asked, affectionate. I said, "Tears? But that was only rain." He looked at me with knowing eyes has never asked, staring me down with unrelenting hatred -- why does he have what I do not?
I smile at his scowl and offer a fresh-cooked meal, which he always accepts with an uninterested grunt. He knows what I am inside. I realized recently, that the more I run from him the more he sees -- straight through to the heart of me. I look at him and see the same -- my falsity is his sincerity, and his belongs to me. Only he can see it, lurking inside. The bitterness with which he speaks is a bitterness I feel, and cling to with all my might. He knows I can see his sweetness; shy and smiling from behind his eyes.
I was content with my mask until I saw him. Now, however, I find that the thing I want most is a part of him that shines most when I am in the misty darkness of the rain. "You'd rather die than betray me."
"You're correct," I said, "I have no choice, don't you think?"
I smiled for him, then, feeling an extra pair of eyes upon us, and reached with trembling fingers for his strength. One of our voyeurs gasped as he slapped my hand away, but held me close against his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin. I knew, then, that I had been wrong all along. How fragile he can be, reduced to tears by the rain.
"Don't worry," I said against his ear, "it will clear, eventually." Staring at me with angry eyes, he told me that I had won. He says I'm unreadable, but I know he knows I love him.