They are talking about childhood memories, days spent sun drenched, splashing in lakes. And I am quiet, fading and hoping they don't notice. Or maybe hoping that they do. It would explain sad eyes and strained explanations. And yet when you do ask me, I still manage to smile glibly, and launch into a story. It's cute, really, and it might've happened. Most of us have lost toys, and spent days looking for them. Except my memories are too dark for me to think of, and I can't imagine what you'd think of them. Maybe you'd feel sorry for me. Don't. I do enough of that for both of us.
I remember hiding, and being to afraid to come out.
I remember starving myself for days, hoping it might hurt you. The tears had no effect, but maybe this would. But you never really cared. And really, you didn’t have to, because I ate eventually. Everyone gets hungry.
I remember the first poems I wrote. My teacher loved them, and wrote about how excellent my writing was for a child. I treasured them, especially the praises that were so rare. I was proud when the teacher sent them to be displayed. Really, it wasn’t a big deal. Just a cheap place in the front of the school with many other selections from classes. I doubt anyone read it. But I was eight, and it didn’t really matter. What did matter was you reading them when I finally brought them home. You glanced at them, then filed them away to answer my pleas. How long did you keep them? A month? Not much more than that. They took up too much space, even though they were only a page or two. Even though they were important to me. I remember sitting at the kitchen table and sobbing as you told me their fate. How long did I cry? An hour? Maybe more. But all that really mattered to me was that I won and you left them alone. You only let me keep them because I wouldn’t stop crying, but it was a victory for me. Now I understand how fucked up that is.
Eyes are the window to the soul. If you looked a bit closer, you might be able to spot my lies.