You tell me I can look inside you
penetrate you,
delve amongst what’s hidden there,
know you.
And yes, I know you.
Know that you hide yourself 
in subterfuge.
Know there’s both fantasy and fact
in the mixture
you expose
in your stories.
And they’re hidden inside.

I know that you bar the door, 
and don’t let anyone in.
Make up stories.
Or spit out what comes first 
into your head.
Let it escape.
Then, if it’s true, 
hide it,
cloak it in make believe, 
in fantastic lies.
So no one knows 

Yes, I can see inside,
see the grand mixture
of nonsense,
of deceit and anxiety, 
truth and concern
for privacy.
But I can’t separate out one from 
the other.
And it doesn’t matter, you see, I like
the mystery.

But you are wrong to think that
when I look inside you
I know who you are.
Only that you are a mystery.
And that I like mysteries.
I can understand them.


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