I was told to open up
I was asked to show my real face
/don’t you trust me yet/
(no. But I can’t tell you that. You might be dangerous.)
/what is the real you/
[what are you wearing] Really? That?
Lana del Rey is crooning about Summertime from the other room while I have clicked on a poet I never read before, reading about her grief. The two meet somewhere between rooms and I imagine them as performance art. I write something to that effect on Twitter. Ten minutes later I get embarrassed. I delete it.
I show you a picture of an animal in a trap.
/ I don’t get it/
Then why ask to see it? Why ask for transparency without a measure of mercy and understanding in your pockets?
/show me more/
You’re a sadist, aren’t you?
/don’t you trust me?/
I don’t know.