You're still there.
Writing with what you think is your heart,
but is actually just your sleeve.
Feeling with what surely must be your body and soul but is really,
only an imitation of what you've pulled out of books, out of scripts, out of the dramatization of things that are actually real.
You would scoff.
And you would lower your voice, turn away from me slightly, scornfully,
and you would tell me that I do not know you.
You are right, I suppose.
I don't know you.
But then, I don't know if I really care to anyway.
And there doesn't seem to be a You to know, in any case.
You are a mosiac of cut-outs.
From magazines, romance novels, movies.
Painstakingly pieced together and held in place by anything foreign, anything that takes you away from your roots.
You are right, I don't know you and I don't know what you're capable of.
But it's a tad difficult, getting to know someone who isn't real.
And in any case, I don't care much to.
Not now.
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