How can anyone think they know me when I am still learning myself? You think because you live with me, you know me? You think because you are or at one point have been my best friend, you know me? You think because you read my words, you know me? You think because I tell you everything I want to tell you, you know me?

You don’t know me. You don’t know that I fight with my alter ego on a daily basis; my alter is almost a polar opposite, and I can’t stand her. You don’t know that my words are more than myself; they don’t represent me, but my dreams, my nightmares, my fantasies, my reality, your reality, your dreams, your nightmares, your fantasies, and experiencing life. Whether I experience vicariously or not is to my discretion.

You don’t know me just because I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am not as hopeless, lost, or transient as I may appear at times; only enough to feel utterly lost when my alter takes over. I can’t control the alter sometimes; sometimes, I don’t want to. I want to be in that black abyss where I believe that I am not meant for happiness. All I want is something so simple yet still too complex to obtain. Sometimes I want to feel the emptiness that my alter brings; I want to feel out of my body. I want to just plain feel.

If it were up to me, I’d always be happy. But I can’t hide my alter alone. It’s like when I can’t deny any longer that my world is not as happy as I would like it to be, my alter takes over. I can be mean on those days, and the venom I spit cannot be overcome. They are few and far between in general, but can sometimes creep up more often than I would like.

I don’t pine for things I know I cannot/will not have, but that does not mean I will not enjoy myself and the passion for life, poetry, and people true love brings. I don’t hope for things that will never be, but that does not mean I will not enjoy the fantasies my denial teases me with.

You don’t know me. You don’t know that I can love someone with every part of my heart without ever having to give it to them. You don’t know that for that love, I can be content with never being with them so long as they are a part of my life always. You don’t know that I don’t need them, I want them. You don’t know that I can love maturely and accept that I will not be with whomever I please; you don’t know that I am enlightened.

You don’t know what I want.

You don’t know what you want.

You don’t know who you are.

How can you suppose to know who I am?