in hiding

someone tells me 

another story,

different 

from the one you told. 

people can't decide

what's best for me.

(sometimes,

i wish they could.)

she thinks it's wonderful news,

and she

well, she disagrees.

(sometimes,

i wish i'd listen.)

i don't know you.

i hope you aren't lying.

if you are,

i hope you do it well.

i don't think anyone knows

but you.

and you seem to be hiding

something.

many things?

everything.

i fear

that feeling of perfection.

it's a good way

to gild grotesque pasts,

and uglier presents.

it's been used

to erase warnings of

whatever tragedies may follow.

who can i talk to?

who knows?

who knows

but you?

you,

who won't tell me a thing.

and i am walking

dangerously close,

wandering without a map.

i continue wishing

that this is safe,

that i'm not lost,

that i'm not fooled.

wishing, yes, but

wondering, still,

when would i fall

into the hole

that was made for me?

(why won't you

talk to me?)