I don't like crying in front of anyone. Not even in front of the mirror. I can't forget what my father said because it hurt then. And it still hurts now but not as much. The way you looked at me, you like me. Or you're doing a good job pretending you do. I'm fun and I laugh and I joke and I ask where are you from but all the time I'm thinking you don't know the rage I'm hiding with that high pitch laugh of mine, do you? He looks at me and says "Oh, poor girl, you're a hundred miles away" then he turns around and leaves. Tears begin to fill right away. It has nothing to do with you, or with him, or with my father. It has everything to do with me, with the conflicts inside my head, with the questions left unanswered, with the people and their excuses and their 'I never meant to hurt you'-s and their self centered treacherous nature and the brick walls I lean on and discover they're only thin paper and how weak I am. And how strong I can be. But the way you looked at me, you like me. Or you're dong a good job pretending you do.
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