Falling into this simple trap
of warped intricacies...
and never understanding that
this bent mirror may reflect
only obsession, in the midst of open honesty.
Trying to force us into categories again...
trying to believe that there was no protest.
I am not the open book that would have you
staring into every page and picture interested-
not for the joy of knowing, but for the
use that would be made from the capacity
of your knowledge alone...
I don't believe you are who you say you are,
or that you lack some intrinsic motive, or pretense...
I don't believe that you would be so eager
to know me...
if only you knew me.
I could walk from this haze,
and be in wonderland...
while you, trailing on my heels
would only see the picture disintegrate-
not because I don't have the power
to hold up this dented picture frame...
but because you fail to understand
that it is not some beautiful painted image...
but only a slightly bent mirror.
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